The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm.

Is it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanc'd true friends,…

Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer-nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream …

So, loath to suffer mute. We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear.

To-night she will spread her brown hair on his pillow, But I shall be hearing the harsh cries of wild fowl.

There never was night that had no morn.

I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.