The following is an extract from 'Watership Down' by Richard Adams.

The full moon, well risen in a cloudless eastern sky, covered the high solitude with it's light. We are not concious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us the natural condition of the earth and the air. When we think of the downs, we think of the downs in daylight, as we think of a rabbit with it's fur on. Stubbs may have envisaged the skeleton inside the horse, but most of us do not: and we do not usually envisage the downs without daylight, even though the light is not the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take the daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight to that extent it is utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls apon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable, flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself was ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech-woods at night. In moonlight two acres of coarse bent-grass, undulant and ankle-deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that even the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And it's low intensity - so much lower than daylight - makes us concious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvellous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.
As the rabbits came up by the hole inside the beech-wood, a swift gust of wind passed through the leaves, checkering and dappling the ground beneath, stealing and giving light under the branches. They listened, but beyond the rustle of the leaves, there came from the open down outside no sound except the monotonous tremelo of a grasshopper warbler, far off in the grass.
'What a moon!' said Silver "Lets enjoy it while it's here"

I've posted it here as Richard Adams describes moonlight better than I ever can. Thankyou Richard.