I know not if it be the fancied light Which every man or more or less doth feel; Or if the mind and memory reveal Some other beauty for the heart's delight;
Or if within the soul the vision bright Of her celestial home once more doth steal, Drawing our better thoughts with pure appeal To the true Good above all mortal sight:
This light I long for and unguided seek; This fire that burns my heart, I cannot find; Nor know the way, though some one seems to lead.
This, since I saw thee, lady, makes me weak: A bitter-sweet sways here and there my mind; And sure I am thine eyes this mischief breed.
He who ordained, when first the world began, Time, that was not before creation's hour, Divided it, and gave the sun's high power To rule the one, the moon the other span: Thence fate and changeful chance and fortune's ban Did in one moment down on mortals shower: To me they portioned darkness for a dower; Dark hath my lot been since I was a man. Myself am ever mine own counterfeit; And as deep night grows still more dim and dun, So still of more misdoing must I rue: Meanwhile this solace to my soul is sweet, That my black night doth make more clear the sun Which at your birth was given to wait on you.
All hollow vaults and dungeons sealed from sight, All caverns circumscribed with roof and wall, Defend dark Night, though noon around her fall, From the fierce play of solar day-beams bright. But if she be assailed by fire or light, Her powers divine are nought; they tremble all Before things far more vile and trivial-- Even a glow-worm can confound their might. The earth that lies bare to the sun, and breeds A thousand germs that burgeon and decay-- This earth is wounded by the ploughman's share: But only darkness serves for human seeds; Night therefore is more sacred far than day, Since man excels all fruits however fair.
What time bright Phoebus doth not stretch and bend His shining arms around this terrene sphere, The people call that season dark and drear Night, for the cause they do not comprehend. So weak is Night that if our hand extend A glimmering torch, her shadows disappear, Leaving her dead; like frailest gossamere, Tinder and steel her mantle rive and rend. Nay, if this Night be anything at all, Sure she is daughter of the sun and earth; This holds, the other spreads that shadowy pall. Howbeit they err who praise this gloomy birth, So frail and desolate and void of mirth That one poor firefly can her might appal.