The passion-colour’d images of life,
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there—still, solemn, holy night!
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.
Mother. And wherefore night, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,