Nature is a thing that bids us rise, And live in the sun; she does not lie; She bids us work, and offers no disguise, Of what is sweet to taste, though more to sigh.
The misty evening, with her hazy light, Corrupted day, and from the heavens sore; Yet through the twilight gleam’d the growing night, And brought the shadows round the flocks no more.
- William Hazlitt