The Nights.

—Barry Cornwall.

OH! The Summer Night,
Has a smile of light,
And she sits on a sapphire throne;
While the sweet Winds load her,
With garlands of odor,
From the bud to the rose o’er-blown!

But the Autumn Night
Has a piercing sight,
And a step both strong and free;
And a voice for wonder,
Like the wrath of the Thunder,
When he shouts to the stormy sea!

And the Winter Night
Is all cold and white,
And she singeth a song of pain;
Till the wild bee hummeth,
And the warm spring cometh,
Then she dies in a night of rain.

Oh the Night, the Night!
‘Tis a lovely sight,
Whatever the clime or time,
For sorrow then soareth,
And the lover outpoureth
His soul in a star-bright rhyme.

It bringeth sleep
To the forests deep,
The forest bird to its nest;
To Care, bright hours,
And dreams of flowers,
And that balm to the weary,—Rest!

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