“Shall I despair because the day is dead,
And all thy strange, sad witchery has passed
Into the gold of visions! Shall I cast
My soul to where the hands of Night outspread
Those cosmic epics, the emotions dread
Of panting planets and of stars aghast!
Shall I bemoan the raptures that outlast
The sun’s swift splendors that so soon are sped!
“Have I not felt the magic of thy hand,
And watched the sun make amber of thy hair!