Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?
Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap?
Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?
Day shows us not such comfort anywhere:
Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?
Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,
Day, that shows man so great and God so small.
That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;
O is the Darkness too a lying glass
Or, undistracted, do ye find truth there?