Walking out into moonlight, the speaker notices it’s making lovely lakes and meadows seem even lovelier than ever. But almost at once, he corrects himself: they aren’t actually more beautiful tonight. The real shift in his attention lands on something else entirely—a glass jar meant for trapping wasps, left hanging from a dead apple bough. Empty and catching the light, it glistens so intensely that nothing on earth or in the sky can match its pure brightness. It’s become a kind of star.
The mood is one of hushed, delighted surprise. An overlooked, practical object suddenly outshines the moonlit landscape and the heavens above. The poem captures that fleeting moment when light transforms the humblest thing into something radiant, and it leaves you with a quiet feeling that beauty can appear where you’d least expect it.