How is it, O moon, that melting
Unstintedly, prodigally,
On the peaks' hard majesty,
Till they seem diaphanous
And fluctuant as a veil,
And pouring thy rapturous light
Through pine and oak and laurel,
Till the summer-sharpened green,
Softening and tremulous,
Is a luster of liquid silver—
How is it that I find,
When I turn again to thee,
That thy lost and wasted light
Is regained in one magic breath ?