His negligence the multitude call Night,
A name of absence, till he glow again.
So impotent is she, so weak and vain,
That kindle up a torch, its petty light
Doth work her death; and frame she hath so slight,
That flashing of a flint will rend in twain.
If Night in her own self be anything,
Call her the daughter of the Earth and Sun,
The last creating, first receiving shade.
Be what she may, how glorify a thing