Midsummernight, When all the world stands, stilled, To drink the frosted wine the moon has spilled; When darkness has the quality of sleep, Resistless, deep; When trees are fans That sweep their feather-fingered hands Scooping the dark Into the cool recesses of the park. Midsummernight, That resting ledge Before which we start to climb the year's steep edge; The lightly running season's pause Between drawn breaths, From Spring's bright births half-way to Autumn's deaths. Midsummernight, When space is arm's length long; When note on note The ache of your remembered song Throbs in my throat. |