Quickly and easily cometh thy sleep.
Fond of all little ones is the good moon;
Girls most of all, but he even loves boys.
Down from up there he sends beautiful toys....
He's old as a raven, he goes everywhere;
Even when father was young, he was there.

The pearl of his poems is the exquisite _Evening Song_:

The moon hath risen on high,
And in the clear dark sky
The golden stars all brightly glow;
And black and hushed the woods,
While o'er the fields and floods
The white mists hover to and fro.

How still the earth, how calm!
What dear and home-like charm
From gentle twilight doth she borrow!
Like to some quiet room,
Where, wrapt in still soft gloom,
We sleep away the daylight's sorrow.

Boie's _Evening Song_ is in the same key. None of the moonshine poets
of his day expressed night-fall like this:

How still it is! How soft
The breezes blow!
The lime leaves lisp in whisper and echo answers low;
Scarce audibly the rivulet running amid the flower