O gentle Night, thy monthly-winking eye
Smiles sweetly down on me from ebon skies;
Hold now thy quiet vigil as I sleep,
And from ill dreams my weary spirit keep.

Thine entourage, the stars, serenely wait
Upon thee, hov’ring in that vast estate
Which thou retain’st; they stand in clusters there,
That men see from below, and name them fair.

Thou and thy husband, Day, must ever reign
In thine own turn; in Winter-time, the gain
Of dominion passes from he to thee,
And in the Summer’s span, ‘tis his to be.

Thy husband’s eye hath might to glare and burn,
And rarely from his watches doth he turn;
But thou, soft Night, art ever calm and cool,
Thine eye is like an orbèd silver pool.

I sing to thee, dear Queen of dusk and shade,
That thou art fair, as thou wast when first made.
Under thy care I take my silent rest;
‘Tis thou that ever I have loved the best.