Night (Sargent)

But, oh! the night---the cool, luxurious night, Which closes round us when the day grows dim, And the sun sinks from his meridian height, Behind the ocean's occidental rim! Clouds, in thin streaks of purple, green and red, Gather around his setting, and absorb The last rich rays of glory, that are shed, In wide profusion, from his failing orb. And now the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns To smile serenely on the charmed sea, That shines as if inlaid with lightning chains, From which it hardly struggled to be free. Swan-like, with motion unperceived, we glide, Touched by the downy breeze, and favored by the tide.