Shadow owes its birth to light.
—John Gay (1685–1732) English Poet, Dramatist
The night is made for tenderness so still that the low whisper, scarcely audible, is heard like music, and so deeply pure that the fond thought is chastened as it springs and on the lip is made holy.
—Nathaniel Parker Willis (1806–67) American Poet, Playwright, Essayist
Quiet night, that brings rest to the laborer, is the outlaw’s day, in which he rises early to do wrong, and when his work is ended, dares not sleep.
—Philip Massinger (1583–1640) English Playwright
I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the night without thinking that the night pleases us because it suppresses idle details, just as our memory does.
—Jorge Luis Borges (1899–1986) Argentine Writer, Essayist, Poet
Night is a stealthy, evil Raven, Wrapt to the eyes in his black wings.
—Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907) American Writer, Poet, Critic, Editor.
Twilight drops her curtain down, and pins it with a star.
—Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874–1942) Canadian Novelist
Under thy mantle black, there hidden lie, light-shunning theft, and traitorous intent, abhorred bloodshed, and vile felony, shameful deceit, and danger imminent, foul horror, and eke hellish dreriment.
—Edmund Spenser (1552–99) English Poet
Nothing like a nighttime stroll to give you ideas.
—J. K. Rowling (b.1965) English Novelist
I love night more than day–she is so lovely; But I love night the most because she brings My love to me in dreams which scarcely lie.
—Philip James Bailey (1816–1902) English Poet
One summer night, out on a flat headland, all but surrounded by the waters of the bay, the horizons were remote and distant rims on the edge of space. Millions of stars blazed in darkness, and on the far shore a few lights burned in cottages. Otherwise there was no reminder of human life. My companion and I were alone with the stars: the misty river of the Milky Way flowing across the sky, the patterns of the constellations standing out bright and clear, a blazing planet low on the horizon. It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so the lights burned in the cottages and the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night, perhaps they never will.
—Rachel Carson (1907–64) American Naturalist, Science Writer