What night is night, if inky blackness ne’er yields its shroudless obscurity to lend but a prick of time to the twinkling spirits of the night?
It cannot be night; for ever watchful are the glittering, hovering spirits
Never are they cast in the shadow of the night
They illuminate
Never can they be outshone while it is still night!

How could it be night if no man’s penetrative gaze could scarce but touch the first of infinite parts of dense and thickened shade?
What night is night if night, so willful to blind, blinds without thought or shame?

How is it night?

Wondrous is the night, wondrous is the dark:
A light for a time which no man has power enough to stop
Beautiful is the night
A shroud for those who do not wish to be seen
Perfect is the night
A veil for the lover and his own