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I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, "Would'st thou me?" Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, "Shall I nestle near thy side? Would'st thou me?"--And I replied, "No, not thee." Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822] TO NIGHT Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus with the host of heaven came, And lo! creation widened on man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind! Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?-- If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life? Joseph Blanco White [1775-1841] NIGHT Mysterious night! Spread wide thy silvery plume! Soft as swan's down, brood o'er the sapphirine Breadth of still shadowy waters dark as wine; Smooth out the liquid heavens that stars illume! Come with fresh airs breathing the faint perfume Of deep-walled gardens, groves of whispering pine; Scatter soft dews, waft pure sea-scent of brine; In sweet repose man's pain, man's love resume! Deep-bosomed night! Not here where down the marge Marble with palaces those lamps of earth Tremble on trembling blackness; nay, far hence, There on the lake where space is lone and large, And man's life lost in broad indifference, Lilt thou the soul to spheres that gave her birth! John Addington Symonds [1840-1893] NIGHT Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Down on our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is, and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions, less beguiling far Than waking dreams by d
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