Night
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
As some dusk mother shields from all alarms
The tired child she gathers to her breast,
The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,
And hushes me to perfect peace and rest.
Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear
Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear.
O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art!
Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.
The day is full of gladness, and the light
So beautifies the common outer things,
I only see with my external sight,
And only hear the great world’s voice which rings.
But silently from daylight and from din
The sweet Night draws me—whispers, “Look within!”
And looking, as one wakened from a dream,
I see what is—no longer what doth seem.
The Night says, “Listen!” and upon my ear
Revealed, as are the visions to my sight,
The voices known as “Beautiful” come near
And whisper of the vastly Infinite.
Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity,
Their brother Honour, all converse with me,
And kiss my brow, and say, “Be brave of heart!”
O holy three! how beautiful thou art!
The Night says, “Child, sleep that thou may’st arise
Strong for to-morrow’s struggle.” And I feel
Her shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes:
Like thistledown I float to the Ideal—
The Slumberland, made beautiful and bright
As death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight,
O food for souls, sweet dreams of pure delight,
How beautiful the holy hours of Night!
