Lord Byron (1788–1824)

THE MOON is up, and yet it is not night:

Sunset divides the sky with her; a sea

Of glory streams along the Alpine height

Of blue Friuli’s mountains; heaven is free

From clouds, but of all colors seems to be

Melted to one vast Iris of the west,

Where the day joins the past eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian’s crest

Floats through the azure air, an island of the blest.

A single star is at her side, and reigns

With her o’er half the lovely heaven; but still

Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains

Rolled o’er the peak of the far Rhœtian hill,

As day and night contending were until

Nature reclaimed her order: gently flows

The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil

The odorous purple of a new-born rose,

Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows.

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,

Comes down upon the waters; all its hues,

From the rich sunset to the rising star,

Their magical variety diffuse:

And now they change; a paler shadow strews

Its mantle o’er the mountains: parting day

Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues

With a new color as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till ’tis gone—and all is gray.