The delicate pink & crimson of morn

Echoes the lingering lights of the eve;

Does the sun now rise, an infant reborn,

Or does he darken, a soul to grieve?

Both times seem happy, as the prime of day

Gives way to the slumbering purge of night:

The darkness that sparks in starry array,

Sprinkling astral libations of light.

Day conquers day in perpetual strife,

The sky is a fluxing divinity;

Its altering hues are where death touches life:

Upon the threshold of infinity.

Is this now my dusk or is this my dawn?

Was it long ere now that I had passed on?