NIGHT is the city's disease. The streets and the people one sees Glow with a light that is strangely inhuman; A fever that never grows cold. Heaven completes the disgrace; For now, with her star-pitted face, Night has the leer of a dissolute woman, Cynical, moon-scarred and old. And I think of the country roads; Of the quiet, sleeping abodes, Where every tree is a silent brother And the hearth is a thing to cling to. And I sicken and long for it now— To feel clean winds on my brow, Where Night bends low, like an all-wise mother Looking for children to sing to. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE YOUTH OF NATURE: WORDSWORTH'S COUNTRY by MATTHEW ARNOLD THE ROSARY by ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS THE OLD HOKUM BUNCOMBE by ROBERT EMMET SHERWOOD MUSIC IN THE NIGHT by HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD MY MOTHER'S GARDEN by ALICE E. ALLEN |