"The moon was a ghostly galleon..."

"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."
                                                     From 'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes
                                        

The moon is almost full. During the last couple of nights she has climbed her way up through the pine tree, giving tantalising glimpses of light through the black mesh of pine needles, until she appeared at last, elegant and regal, surrounded by a hazy mist, and artistically draped in wispy lengths of cloud.
What is it about the moon that is so magical? Even though science has now told us that she has no light of her own, being instead a reflector for the sun, it takes nothing from her ethereal majesty. And why is she a 'she'? Though there can be no doubt at all that it is so. The sun, big and brash and attention-seeking (we hope!) makes himself the king of the day; he rules over the world with overt confidence (and covert insecurity). But the moon, ever calm amidst the storm, noble and pure, who caresses the sleeping world in a gentle, soothing, perfumed light - she is surely the undisputed Queen of the Night.