At Night

The hermit more-pork calls
With a long, plaintive sob among the boughs
Of star-drenched ngaios, and the echo falls
Upon my heart,
And suddenly I know
That I have died.
A light twinkles across the gloom
And the boom
Of surf upon the shore
Is mingled strangely with a gramophone
Somewhere in the night.
And suddenly I, alone,
Desire nothing more—
Except to live.
With echoes falling ever—on my heart.

—S.G.M.