Author John Richard Moreland The night is white, The moon is high, The birch trees lean Against the sky. The cruel winds Have blown away Each little leaf Of silver gray. O lonely trees As white as wool . . . That moonlight makes Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 3.7 (25 votes) Rate Log in or register to post comments