The Night

Oh! give me the night, the dark, dark night,          The night with never a star.     When the stars are veiled and the moon has sailed          Beyond the horizon's bar.     When thought grows weary of groping its way          Through darkness dense and deep,     And buries its head in oblivion's bed,          Wrapped warm in the mantle of sleep.     For I hate the night, the moon-white night,          The night with a pallid face,     When a million eyes from the watchful skies          Peers into each secret place.     For thought awakes and the old wound aches,          And Sorrow she cannot rest,     But all night long walks to and fro          Through the aisles of my troubled breast.     And Memory thinks it her royal hour          When the heavens glitter and shine;     And she fills the cup of the past well up          With a bitter and scalding wine.     And she calls for a toast to the ghastly ghost          Of a joy that used to be.     And that terrible face in the dear old moon          Stares steadily down at me.     So give me the night, the deep, dark night,          The night with never a star,     When the skies are veiled and the moon has sailed          Beyond the horizon's bar.