Day, you have bruised and beaten me, As rain beats down the bright, proud sea, Beaten my body, bruised my soul, Left me nothing lovely or whole— Yet I have wrested a gift from you, Day that dies in dusky blue: For suddenly over the factories I saw a moon in the cloudy seas— A wisp of beauty all alone In a world as hard and gray as stone— Oh who could be bitter and want to die When a maiden moon wakes up in the sky? - Sara Teasdale