The innocent, sweet Day is dead.
Dark Night hath slain her in her bed.
O, Moors are as fierce to kill as to wed!
Put out the light, said he.
A sweeter light than ever rayed
From star of heaven or eye of maid
Has vanished in the unknown Shade.
She’s dead, she’s dead, said he.
Now, in a wild, sad after-mood
The tawny Night sits still to brood
Upon the dawn-time when he wooed.
I would she lived, said he.
Star-memories of happier times,
Of loving deeds and lovers’ rhymes,
Throng forth in silvery pantomimes.
Come back, O Day! said he.