Night, the black that which everything contrasts against.

Night, your infinite beauty is often overlooked by the picture which you frame.

How despondent must you be?

How the vessel is never praised, but only the cargo.

Night is an ageless wonder, which feels no spite nor undo malice.

Night, you silhouette all.

Night, lending the mundane picture a mere fraction of your beauty.

Night, never jealous or enraged, always calm and tranquil.

When poets walk amongst you and you envelop them, and they write on the objects of this world that you frame so perfectly.

Even though poets sing your praises rarely, you still provide a silence and solitude, yet a warmth and comfort which all things are drowned in.

You still help those who do not recognize your vast depths and expanses.

No one can ever truly appreciate all that you do for man.

You shroud the soldiers

You hide the poor waifs who have no where to turn

You conceal the wrongfully chased

You provide silence for thinkers

You provide a covering for lovers who seek privacy in the town.

You notify the sleepers

You end the day.