The stairwell holds you in the light
The moon let slip over the sill.
Now remove yourself from the thin
Sample of air in which you’ve been.
Behold the Night! A secret chill
Sustains her silent chords. The slight
White tremors on the Earth
Craze the frost
Into mute chinks of mirth.
Night is fast
Falling and shall uptake
You in arms widely awake.
That she knows you best,
Let you contented rest.
Then, when she lays you in the brake,
Her privilege to forsake,
Let Dawn say what thing ye shall make.