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?