AT THE RISING OF THE MOON 



' The dew is heavy on the grass : the corncrake 

 calls : on a cloudy juniper the nightjar churrs : 

 the fhionna or white moth wavers above the tall 

 spires of the foxglove. The midsummer eve is 

 now a grey-violet dusk. At the rising of the 

 moon a sigh comes from the earth. Down 

 the moist velvety ledges of the dark a few far- 

 apart and low-set stars pulsate as though about 

 to fall, but continuously regather their tremu- 

 lous white rays. The night of summer is 

 come.' 



With these words I ended my preceding 

 article, 'The Coming of Dusk.' There was 

 not space there to speak of other, of so many 

 of those nocturnal things which add so much 

 to the mystery and spell of the short nights of 

 summer : the arrowy throw of the bat, a 

 shadowy javelin flung by a shadowy hand 

 against a shadowy foe ; the nightjar, the dusky 

 clans of the owl, moonrise at sea or among 



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