There's no inspiration to be had in the day; The light mercilessly burns all the beauty away. What's left behind is sterile and stark- Let me wander and wonder instead in the dark. The sun shines so brightly that I can see Everything exactly as it is, before me- No avoiding a spade or rounding a square, No comfort in fantasy or hope for me, there. Yet, all these things, so horrible in the glare, Night clothes in a mystery day cannot spare. I would rather grow pale and clarity dismiss, Than bleach out white in the day's false promise.