The Dying of the Night
By John Herlihy

In the pre-dawn darkness,
It is the appointed hour,
When there is night beyond the night,
A presence beyond the presence,
That speaks of ancient mystery,
And the sanctity of the night.
The world and I wander lost,
Gloomy, wild, and vague,
An old parchment map with faded tracings,
A thing sculpted in the shadows of dark marble.
We witness the dying hour of the night,
When darkness issues its greatest intensity,
A pitch-dark ebony as black as coal,
As ominous as the tolling of bells.
As haunting as a lighthouse in a storm.

It is the hour of sudden illumination
That pierces the darkness like a flaming sword.
The night lays itself down unhurriedly
To its own sweet slumber.
Far, far away from the light of day.
It is the moment of pre-awakening,
When the world holds it breath
As life begins to stir once again.
The darkness descends to its doom,
The light ascends a celestial staircase,
Dressed in ermine, a regal sight,
Banishing the gloom,
From the depths of night,
A sudden death that died of fright
Overcome as it was by a blazing light.