There are some who delight in a starlight night, And some like a chandelier; And others a grate-full of anthracite, Or of hickory burning clear, And some the religious light that is shed Adown in a church’s aisle— And some will turn out from a nice, warm bed To gaze on a burning pile. But the light that we love far better than all Is the light of the golden moon At the sweet, short hour “ayont the twal,” Just past the summer night’s noon. Oh! then ’tis sweet to roam alone, Or to sit in the shaded bower! No enchantment, we ween, on earth is known Like the magic of such an hour. ’Tis sweet when the night by the moon is graced To wander with her we love; Or to sit with our arm around her waist, While we coax from her hand the glove; And to teaze in a whisper for one sweet kiss Till we gain the darling boon! Oh! for making love ne’er a time like this— By the light of the August moon. “And so on,” as Elia says, “one might proceed in this strain forever.” Give to us, then, the moonlit nights of fragrant August and mature September. There is a body to them, a delicate aroma withal—the intoxication is heavenly, such as nectar might produce. Then it is that heaven seems descended to the earth, and fairy land restored. Then it is, that, if we find ourselves alone with one of the other sex, by the soft light, we are prone to imagine her to be our better self, our other moiety, the twin soul for which we have longed in our dreams, and—hence the propriety of a proper selection of moonlight company, judiciously made, before sunset. Then it is that we like to talk but little, and only in whispers and low tones. Then it is that our souls grow large, and we cannot believe ourselves mortal. Deep ardent longings seize us for something we know not what. Tears, neither of sadness or joy, spring to our eyes. Delicious, incomprehensible emotions agitate our hearts. Strange things seem easy of credence, and to see a troop of fairies dancing on the green lawn, or the placid ghost of a dear friend, half hidden in the shade of yonder vine, would startle us but little, and would seem all in keeping. Then we grow poetical—romantic—at peace with all the world—then chilly—then—ah! poor human nature!—then sleepy! and when, six hours after, we rise, at the third call, to a late cold breakfast, eggs, rolls and coffee seem to us of great importance, and occupy the whole attention of a soul, which, but lately, held the whole world in its embrace and felt a void the while.