Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The Night

Oh! give me the night, the dark, dark night,
   The night with never a star.
When the stars are veiled and the moon has sailed
   Beyond the horizon’s bar.
When thought grows weary of groping its way
   Through darkness dense and deep,
And buries its head in oblivion’s bed,
   Wrapped warm in the mantle of sleep.

For I hate the night, the moon-white night,
   The night with a pallid face,
When a million eyes from the watchful skies
   Peers into each secret place.
For thought awakes and the old wound aches,
   And Sorrow she cannot rest,
But all night long walks to and fro
   Through the aisles of my troubled breast.

And Memory thinks it her royal hour
   When the heavens glitter and shine;
And she fills the cup of the past well up
   With a bitter and scalding wine.
And she calls for a toast to the ghastly ghost
   Of a joy that used to be.
And that terrible face in the dear old moon
   Stares steadily down at me.
So give me the night, the deep, dark night,
   The night with never a star,
When the skies are veiled and the moon has sailed
   Beyond the horizon’s bar.