Night

Now darkness reigns and the soft wings of Night
Fold o'er the sleeping world; the flowers sigh,
Whispering their dreams, where the faint breezes lie
In restless slumber, pausing from their flight.
On the cold fountains now, and on the leaves,
The dewdrops lie, and white mists veil the stream;
The night is sad and silent as a dream,
Laying cold fingers on the heart that grieves.
Through the dark branches Night's thin, silver bow
Gleams like a jewel on her brow; the sea,
Dreaming of days that never more may be,
Lies dumb with strange, unutterable woe.
And dreams come floating by on silver wings—
Faint memories of old, forgotten things.

—J.M.