midnight
_ Pride Has a Fall _ THERE is nothing more strange , but nothing more certain , than the different influence which the seasons of night and day exercise upon the moods of our minds . Him whom the moon sends to bed with a head full of misty meaning the sun-will summon in the morning with a brain clear and lucid as his beam . Twilight makes us pensive ; Aurora is the goddess of activity . Despair curses at midnight ; Hope blesses at noon . And the bright beams of Phoebus -- why should this good old name be forgotten ? -- called up our Duke rather later than a monk at matins , in a less sublime disposition than that in which he had paced among the orange-trees of Dacre . His passion remained , but his poetry was gone .