Spiteful day. Its idle pomp, its vainglorious show, is derided by the man whose sight has been blessed by night. The illusions of Day renown and reputation, power and profit, so magnificently glittering disperse like barren particles in the sun before the Man who looks with love upon night's death. O sink down upon me, night of love, make me forget I am alive, take me up to your bosom, set me free of the world. –Wagner