In a Field by Moonlight.
This is the hour of the cat and the hunting owl;
All day long, the pickers have toiled in the sun.
Now the night is still. From a distance comes the howl
Of a small, uneasy cur, the only one Awake in a world of sleep.
There is a rustle between the raspberry canes
That is not wind-made. The country-side holds its breath.
Who trespasses here, in the small dark leafy lanes?
Who is it, brother? Is it a stalking Death?
We are afraid to peep!
Now there is silence. The Peril has passed away,
The danger vanished. Benignly the round moon gleams.
Nothing moves in the field save the canes that sway
With a tiny wind. In restless, prick-eared dreams
The little field-mice are curled.
And all the berries are gathered—the berries of red,
Casketed yesterday deep in their leaves of green,
Are gathered and gone… . The stars wink overhead,
And the moon, a luminous globe on a purple screen,
Looks down on a silver world.

—Betty Maitland.