Hush my darling, come stop your crying. The sun, so passionate, so careless, has dropped his pot of ink. The birds have been washed away, the pinprick windows stained black, the morning glories closed away in retreat. But we have a silver sickle to compensate. Watch it and hush my darling, be like the night. Fall into the fallen pot, and the flood will flood itself out. The morning glories will come.