What witchery lies in thy moonlight,
With its shadows cut clear and fine,
By the moon which is hung in the heavens
Like a silver lamp in a shrine;
By the stars which shine out in their radiance with a
lustre, undimmed and bright,
The day hath its wealth of beauty, but what can excel the night!



Is there aught can exceed the splendor
Of the lake in the moonlight clear,
When mirrored therein are the stately palms
And the pagoda's fantastic tier.
No sound breaks the exquisite silence but the call of
the white-faced owl,
Or the cry of the distant jackal as he goes on his nightly prowl.



There flits past a shadowy form,
But no sound is heard on the midnight air;
'Tis a recluse going to pay his vows in the white-domed temple near,