The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.

If ever I had any doubts about the fundamental realities of religion, they could always be dispelled by one memory- the light upon my father’s face as he came back from early communion.

Bring the buds of the hazel-copse, Where two lovers kissed at noon; Bring the crushed red wild-thyme tops Where they murmured under the moon...

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight, over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding – Riding – riding – The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

St. Luke again associates St. John with St. Peter in the Acts of the Apostles, when, after the Resurrection, that strange boldness had come upon the disciples.

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas

At the end of Revelation there is again that solemn insistence on the personal testimony, and even more solemn warning to those who would impugn it.

Oh, grown-ups cannot understand, And grown-ups never will, How short the way to fairyland Across the purple hill.

Happy, happy, happy for all that God hath done, Glad of all the little leaves dancing in the sun.

Enough of dreams! No longer mock The burdened hearts of men! Not on the cloud, but on the rock Build thou thy faith again; O range no more the realms of air, Stoop to the glen-bound streams; Thy hope was all too like despair: Enough, enough of dreams.