Night
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!
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!