In Petrarchan style.

The weary sun hath made a golden set

And in the dark we hurry to our end

A lonely path with none us aid to send

No planet's kindly light will us abet.

For gloomy shadows us with fears beset -

The terror of the road and unknown bend,

As into tearless loss we must descend,

The hidden journey into all regret.

Yet can you not beyond the loveless sky

Feel silent, joyful calling, not withdrawn

But given to us, loving wondrous cry

A call that boldly names the night begone?

Not lost are we and we shall not all die

But with all hope ablaze shall wait on dawn.


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