Normale Version: Hosmer, William Henry Cuyerl: Night
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O Night! I love thee as a weary child
Loves the maternal breast on which it leans!
Day hath its golden pomp, its bustling scenes;
But richer gifts are thine: the turmoil wild

Of a proud heart thy low, sad voice hath stilled,
Until its throb is gentler than the swell
Of a light billow, and its chamber filled
With cloudless light, with calm unspeakable:

Thy hand a curtain lifteth, and I see
One who first taught my heart with love to thrill,
Though long ago her lip of song grew still:

A strange mysterious power belongs to thee,
To morning, noon, and twilight-time unknown;
For the dead gather round thy starry throne!