Poetry Archives

Night goes hurrying over
Like sweeping clouds;
The birds are nested; their song is silent.
The wind says oo—oo—oo—through the trees
For their lullaby.
The moon shines down on the sleeping birds.

My cottage roof is like a sheet of silk
Spun like a cobweb.
My apple-trees are bare as the oaks in the forest;
When the moon shines
I see no leaves.

I am alone and very quiet
Hoping the moon may say something
Before long.