The young May moon has been justly celebrated by the poets, and many have supposed, that at this season the hearts of lovers are more susceptible than at any other time. Truly the moonlight of May is very beautiful and love inspiring—but the August and September moon is the time of times—when the air is clear and warm, without cloud or chill, and rich and faint with the odors of the ripe fruits—when the corn and grain and all that grows from the earth’s bosom are at full height and verging toward maturity—when other leaves than those of tall trees rustle in the night wind—when the katy-did and cricket hold cheerful conversation, and fill the air with noisy clamor, near akin to silence—when the nights have grown longer and cooler than in the fierce mid-summer—when the moon seems larger and fuller than its wont, and its light has a deeper tone—then is the time to enjoy, in perfection, moonlight nights and lunatic fancies. Nights we say—not evenings. In the evenings one sees company and receives calls, takes wearying walks, hears commonplace remarks about the beauty of the weather and the prospects of the crops, eats ice-creams, drinks sherry-cobblers, or, it may be, smokes cigars and reads the evening newspaper. It is a border ground, upon which the people of the work-day world make forays. But “the small hours,” far in “the stilly night,” from twelve to three, contain the true romance of moonlight. The dull world is asleep, there is a new heaven and a new earth, peopled only by fairies, lunatics, ghosts and poets. Bright heavenly hours! Methinks in praise of them we could “mark out a measure of verse.” They may tell of the sunlight’s brilliant dyes When the day in the Orient breaks; Of the splendid glare which dazzles the eyes As his noontide course he takes; They may talk of the gorgeous hues that glow In the western sky at eve, When, in gaudy pomp and with gilded show, Of the world he takes his leave. They may praise the Aurora’s wayward gleam, As far up the northern sky The ruddy flashes fitfully stream, Then suddenly fade and die; And flash anew, and again sink low, Like the love of a fickle swain; While the shadows flicker over the snow That covers the wintry plain. The poets sing of the twilight hour, The twilight hour of eve; And teach that it hath a magic power To soothe the hearts that grieve; That lovers prefer this gentle time— To courting it gives such a zest— And, as for themselves, for the stringing of rhyme That the twilight hour’s the best.