What joy does day hold that the night does not?
Is it because the sunlight’s gaudy dress
Outshines the peace of moonlight often sought?
It is more vivid, splendid, I confess.
But certainly the pale cheek of the moon
Does prove more subtle in serenity;
A darker shaded cousin looming soon
That rather would not flaunt its entity.
When lucid beams stream through the sighing panes
Of windows long since broken with old age,
From such that waxes brilliant, then wanes,
A droplet of elixir meets the page –
What joy does day hold that the night does not?
What good is brightness easily forgot?