In the still of the night
shining glor'ous and bright,
can the moon round and white give us light by its sheen;
when it's full it is clear
and repels the night's fear;
e'en when new it enlightens, though 't cannot be seen.
By its light we can see,
wild with cricket and bee,
the wide meadow and free, fill'd with living and death;
in the meadow so green
our last ending is seen;
on that sight do we lean and in joy draw our breath.
But the white light is cold,
and the meadow grows old;
though they both excel gold, we still need something more;
so the heat of the flame
gives its life to the same,
such that with it we're wealthy, without it we're poor.
