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Poem	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. 32Star-memories of happier times, Of loving deeds and lovers’ rhymes, Throng forth in silvery pantomimes. —Come back, O Day! said he.
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