But when has glared the torrid-noon,
And afternoon is gasping low,
The sunset brings a sweeter boon
Than ever graced the orient's glow.
And I: “As old wine unto new,
Art thou to morn, belovèd eve!
And what if dies thy every hue
In blankest night? We may not grieve.
“Thy fading lulls us as we dote.
Nor always blank the genial night: