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.
