She walked in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Met in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
Byron

Not many months but long enough to see
No foe can deal such misery
As the dear friend untimely called away
And still the more beloved, the greater still
Must be the acing void, the withering chill
Of each dark night and dim beclouded day.
Charlotte Bronte