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.

Blemishes are hid by night and every fault forgiven; darkness makes any woman fair.

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.

As night falls, let the day's troubles slip away into
the darkness and rest well knowing tomorrow
brings a new day, a new chance to do things better,
a new opportunity to make things right. And when
the new day dawns, awaken a little wiser, a little older,
a little more prepared for the future. That's simply
the pattern of life, my friends, a tapestry of light
threaded with darkness, laughter threaded with tears,
hope threaded with despair, wisdom threaded with
failure, insight threaded with regret. It's just how
we learn and grow as humans, and that's okay.
It's enough to end each day knowing we've done
our best and we'll do our best again tomorrow.

Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.

What was sleep? A blessing, a respite from life, an echo of death, a demanding nuisance?

The repose of sleep refreshes only the body. It rarely sets the soul at rest. The repose of the night does not belong to us. It is not the possession of our being. Sleep opens within us an inn for phantoms. In the morning we must sweep out the shadows.

The blackest night must end in dawn, the light dispel the dreamer's fear.

Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.

Blessed be his name, who hath appointed the quiet night to follow the busy day, and the calm sleep to refresh the wearied limbs and to compose the troubled spirit.

Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.

Night is the other half of life, and the better half.

He is life's liberating force.
He is release of limbs and communion through dance.
He is laughter, and music in flutes.
He is repose from all cares — he is sleep!
When his blood bursts from the grape
and flows across tables laid in his honor
to fuse with our blood,
he gently, gradually, wraps us in shadows
of ivy-cool sleep.

Death is the veil which those who live call life;
They sleep, and it is lifted.