It's by night you must rush
into your truelove's arms.
Unmoored souls will drift afar
easy as mindless clouds.
Could it be the moon's guile,
in rivalry with the sun,
stealing them away?
Some swear the night itself
dissolves neglected souls,
leaves no trace at all.
Love calls on the unwary:
do not be lured away, maddened,
forever lost in wilderness shade.
There's whisper of mania,
or maniacs, infecting poor victims.
And fearful souls refuse to sleep
or resist their feared demons 
with outlandish intoxications:
the cure, sadly, fierce as the rash.
The poet would nod all day
to sing his songs by night-
"Rush Into Your Truelove's Arms"
always the ballad most practiced.