POETRY.
NIGHT.
-ANOTHER clay has ended and again
The fading emeralds of the quiet west Grow dusky o'er the hill-top and the plain, Dying along each drowsy vale and crest, Where Earth lifts up her bosom to the breast Of Night oncoming. Now once more she brings To the least-folded flow'r her primal rest, Opens the mantle of her darkenings And sprinkles the sweet dew from both her starry wings.
The moth and beetle, owl and flittermouseAll creatures that do call the moon their sun Steal silent forth, each from his little house! They mount and fly, and others creep and run, Where fox and hare and brook have all begun The task of living. Now alert, awake, They seek their joy and substance; every one Pads out into the dingle, heath and brake; While hungry fishes stir the silver of the lake.
For servants of the day another boon Brings Night, and as the working hours decrease, Lifts her white evening star and sickle moon To disenthral, unfetter and release; Bidding the long-drawn tale of labour cease.
She comes with twilight-healing for each smart Of soul and body, lays her unguent peace With fingers cool on every aching part; Anoints the tired flesh, soothes the day-foundered heart.
She asks no worship from our drooping eyes; She needs no prayer to minister our plight; Hers not our little deeds and destinies, But still to smooth the pillow, lower the light; Play nurse for every world-aweary wight; Comfort and succour; at a touch redeem; And pour her ancient anodyne of might : Omnipotent sleep, inviolate, supreme, Insensible as death, without one sigh or dream.
EDEN PHILIPOTTS.
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