As sunny noon fades unto the shroud of eve,
One dost lack the haste to leave.
Day, and the skylark jolly,
Give turn to the nightingale, and night without folly.

As it so sweetly sings,
The veil of darkness slowly brings,
Light, in sheets, across the sky,
Ribbons dancing, on the fly.

Darkness, that people usually shun,
Brings forth a beauty, newly begun.
A moment spent, in its glory,
As it tells us all its story.

The sky itself, as a stage,
For this cannot be writ on page.
The actors are colours, for one to see,
In colours of periwinkle, grass, and sunlit sea.

Vibrant against the endless dark,
In imagery are whispers, therefore, hark.
Oh, what a beauteous and lovely scene!
Although it is one not commonly seen.

Soaring o'er the Earth, so fast,
Surely this view, cannot much longer last?
Prancing about, a performance enjoyed,
In our frailty, and with our cores, we have been toyed.

The lights take their leave, as comes the morrow,
Thou art too late, and submerged in sorrow.
Cometh again, on a different date,
And in faith, hope that it aligns with fate.

And as through the night, comes the morn,
Thou art standing there, forlorn.
'Till a glimmer catches thine eye,
A sparkle, a shimmer, of how now and goodbye.