 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
NIGHT.
Oh, night! I love thee, as a weary childLoves 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.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |