C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Night

I THANK thee, Father, that the night is near

When I this conscious being may resign:

Whose only task thy words of love to hear,

And in thy acts to find each act of mine;

A task too great to give a child like me,—

The myriad-handed labors of the day

Too many for my closing eyes to see,

Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say:

Yet when thou see’st me burthened by thy love,

Each other gift more lovely then appears,

For dark-robed Night comes hovering from above,

And all thine other gifts to me endears;

And while within her darkened couch I sleep,

Thine eyes untired above will constant vigils keep.