The night is good at the close of day,
The dying light burns its gentle dance.
Men who see the blinding sight,
Their eyes wild and fierce,
Grieve their end that they know is not right.
Not old or wise to go to their grave,
Into the blaze the brave go in their flight.
Curse the deeds of dark;
Meteors know the frail tears of might.
Though it forked into a bay of rage,
Do not bless death in that good night.
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