Fair mistress of the skies, demurely,
Oh how she hides her face from those
Who want no more than light, and truly,
A sweet release from dark. She goes
So thoughtless to the bereaved children
Of the light, and will not hear them,
She hides away in bitter gray,
Too long at night, so short a day.
Thus stolen by the southern weather;
We the northern pilgrims wait
And pray she will not tarry late,
For who in his right mind would rather
Choose to live without her light?
Now swift the morning, long the night.
postscript
Day two of --Pushkin's Sonnet. Iambic tetrameter with an unusual rhyme scheme. The days are far too dark, too soon. fav.me/daq8spu