Classic Poem

The night, — the night, — we hail thee, sable Night!
There is no tumult in thy dark array,
Thy jewelled cincture, excellently bright,
Beams out more glorious than the garish day.

Day is for care and toilsome weariness,
And hearts grow sick and sad beneath its light,
And then thou comest, soothing their distress,
With dreams and happy slumbers, gentle Night!

Day hath a thousand cares, and painful eyes
Watch his slow progress down the purple west,
And bless thy orient gladness, who dost rise
Shrouded in dim forgetfulness, most blest!

Come, with the mother of thy silver gleam, —
And none shall fail to own thy potent sway,
For grief's uplifted eye shall bless that beam,
And mirth grow calm beneath thy sober ray.

Lone mother of our vigils! unto thee
We call, who guidest, by thy mystic light,
The mighty current of the tumbling sea,
The night, — the night, — we hail thee, sable Night!