The bluest grey — the greyest blue,
Where golden gleaming stars are set;
A moon whose glorious yellow waves
Make fair the rippled rivulet.
Night has her curtain over all;
The firs show dark against the sky:
The only sound is in the song
Of a late nightingale close by.
The wooded walks which seemed so sweet
Seen in the morning's faery light,
Now dim and shadowy hold no charm,
Save the mysterious' charm of night,
One swallow stirs, the gold stars fade,
In the cold sky a chill wind wakes;
The grey clouds frighten out the morn,
And thro' pale mist the new day breaks.
Good morn — good night — which is the best?
God grant some day that I may find
Both true: good morn to joy begun,
Good night to sorrows left behind.