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
With murmuring ripple laps the edge of yonder mystic bower. 
And ever darker grows the veil thou weavest o’er the land,
And ever quieter the hush—­a hush as of the grave.... 
Listen! ’tis Night! she comes, unlighted by a star,
And with the slow sweep of her heavy wing
Awes and revives the timid earth.

Buerger sings in praise of idyllic comfort in The Village, and Hoelty’s mild enthusiasm, touched with melancholy, turned in the same direction.

    My predilection is for rural poetry and melancholy enthusiasm;
    all I ask is a hut, a forest, a meadow with a spring in it, and a
    wife in my hut.

The beginning of his Country Life shews that moralizing was still in the air: 

  Happy the man who has the town escaped! 
  To him the whistling trees, the murmuring brooks,
  The shining pebbles preach
  Virtue’s and wisdom’s lore.... 
  The nightingale on him sings slumber down;
  The nightingale rewakes him, fluting sweet,
  When shines the lovely red
  Of morning through the trees. 
  Then he admires Thee in the plain, O God! 
  In the ascending pomp of dawning day,
  Thee in Thy glorious sun. 
  The worm—­the budding branch—­
  Where coolness gushes in the waving branch
  Or o’er the flowers streams the fountain, rests,
  Inhales the breadth of prime
  The gentle airs of eve. 
  His straw-decked thatch, where doves bask in the sun,
  And play, and hop, invites to sweeter rest
  Than golden halls of state
  Or beds of down afford. 
  To him the plumy people
  Chatter and whistle on his
  And from his quiet hand
  Peck crumbs or peas or grains

His Winter Song runs: 

  Summer joys are o’er,
  Flow’rets bloom no more;
  Wintry joys are sweeping,
  Through the snow-drifts peeping;
  Cheerful evergreen
  Rarely now is seen.

  No more plumed throng
  Charms the woods with song;
  Ice-bound trees are glittering,
  Merry snow-birds twittering,
  Fondly strive to cheer
  Scenes so cold and drear.