Wherever the moonlight touches
A meadow or oft tread dale,
Little, grey rabbits and birds
Each morning tell the tale
Of how, during the long night,
The land took on a softer shade,
Even the humble mushrooms
Seemed to shine within the glade;
Silken-spun lacework of spider\'s webs
Glistened with strands, dewy-pearled,
And a faint, cool, bluish mist
Around trees slowly swirled
Just before the warm sunshine
Chased the moonlight away.
So, if you listen carefully
You might hear those birds say
Praiseworthy things to rabbits
About what happened overnight,
Excited at what resulted
From the softest touch of moonlight.