Night. 
By Very, Jones. 


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,
Thy myriad-handed labours of the day
Too many for my closing eyes to see,
Thy words too frequent for my tongue to say;
Yet when thou seest 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 vigil keep.