The starry cope

Of heaven.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 992.

The starry Galileo with his woes.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 54.

That gems the starry girdle of the year.

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844): Pleasures of Hope. Part ii. Line 194.

Now came still evening on, and twilight gray

Had in her sober livery all things clad;

Silence accompany'd; for beast and bird,

They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,

Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;

She all night long her amorous descant sung;

Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament

With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led

The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,

Rising in clouded majesty, at length

Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light,

And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 598.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

Lord Byron 1788-1824: Hebrew Melodies. She walks in Beauty.

The silence that is in the starry sky.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Song at the Feast of Broughton Castle.

With thee conversing I forget all time,

All seasons, and their change,—all please alike.

Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,

With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun

When first on this delightful land he spreads

His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,

Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth

After soft showers; and sweet the coming on

Of grateful ev'ning mild; then silent night

With this her solemn bird and this fair moon,

And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:

But neither breath of morn when she ascends

With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun

On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,

Glist'ring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,

Nor grateful ev'ning mild, nor silent night

With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon

Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book iv. Line 639.

When his veering gait

And every motion of his starry train

Seem governed by a strain

Of music, audible to him alone.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): The Triad.