William Henry Cuyler Hosmer (1814–1877)

O NIGHT! I love thee as a weary child

Loves 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!