Every vestige of cloud vanished, each star shines clear, a shivering point of blue fire. The night air, tremulant, transmits the half moon's light which is a soundless, ethereal cascade drenching every leaf until the garden appears to have bloomed with moonbeams, and the October night becomes the ghost of spring. As the moon approaches meridian, the shadows gather close to each object, huddling in dense mass, and the lighted ground about seems ever more insubstantial- like a second sky, in which the things of the world float while the world itself dissolves. All sound has ceased, save a faint rustling of leaves and whisper of pines, stirred by what might be a great sigh. I have had dreams in which the fall of moonlight had a sound like the faint tinkling of crystal, and smelled sweetly of something very like honeysuckle, and the earth gave slightly under my steps, as though I were walking on a dense fog. Some night such as this must have lent itself to those dreams- unless those dreams have infused this night.