The innocent, sweet Day is dead.
Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.
O,
Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed! — Put out the light, said he.
A sweeter light than ever
From star of heaven or eye of
Has vanished in the unknown Shade. — She's dead, she's dead, said he.
Now, in a wild, sad
The tawny Night sits still to
Upon the dawn-time when he wooed. — I would she lived, said he.
Star-memories of happier times,
Of loving deeds and lovers' rhymes,
Throng forth in silvery pantomimes. — Come back,
O Day! said he.
