Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon. – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Hyperion

How magnificent the city is by the June moonlight! — after the streets are empty and silent. – Byron Caldwell Smith, letter to Kate Stephens

Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, and all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree. РAntoine de Saint-Exup̩ry