Walter de la Mare’s “Moonlight” is a hushed meditation on how moonlight changes lovers. The far moon seems distant, even divine, and it “maketh lovers wise” not by giving them knowledge but by lending their faces an unearthly beauty: curved cheeks, dark lips, dark eyes all take on “a strangeness not their own.” The speaker suggests that moonlit lovers see each other as slightly transformed, more alluring and mysterious than in ordinary light.
The quiet turn comes at the end. Even when the lovers close their eyes to kiss and try to find private peace in darkness, moonlight still enters. The mood is enchanted and a little eerie—love is not fully private, and beauty comes partly from an outside glow that slips into the most intimate moments. There is wonder here, but also a hint that no inward refuge is completely sealed.