The moon is up, and yet it is not night, The sun as yet divides the day with her. - Lord Byron

My mother Earth!
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,
Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.
And thou, the bright eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all
Art a delight—thou shin'st not on my heart.

Where may the wearied eye repose When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes — one — the first — the last — the best — The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one!

Without a friend, what were humanity,
To hunt our errors up with a good grace?
Consoling us with — 'Would you had thought twice!
Ah, if you had but follow'd my advice!