This Dusky Faith by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Why, then, weep not, / Since naught's to weep.

Too wild, too hot / For a dead thing, / Altered and cold, / Are these long tears: / Relinquishing / To the sovereign force

Of the pulling past / What you cannot hold

Is reason's course.

Wherefore, sleep.

Or sleep to the rocking / Rather, of this: / The silver knocking / Of the moon's knuckles

At the door of the night;

Death here becomes / Being, nor truckles

To the sun, assumes / Light as its right.

So, too, this dusky faith / In Man, transcends its death, / Shines out, gains emphasis;

Shorn of the tangled past, / Shows its fine skull at last, / Cold, lovely satellite.