THE moon has put her garment of white madness upon this night, upon this shining common that a leaning mist has slurred. Far nightingales are ceaseless. Trees are a sinister net, hiding attainable skies; and crickets near suddenly sing against the nightingales ... while all their sound is deep in the quietness, in the quietness turning. And I am filled with it, made great with its grandeur, omnisciently clear. I tower to the stature of the night, steadily watching the moon-steel pillars rise to the velvet ceiling of this cathedraled world. Comes the seed of rage, swells, bursts — my furious fist is stark and black and high against the moon; and "Heart," I shout, "of this great stillness, know I have touched the summits of your mystery. I have seen you all." The inevitable drooping, the failure and folly come. The moment passes as hands, grown vague, drop listless to my side. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BURNING DAWN by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE WOMEN WITH FABLED HAIR by MADELINE DEFREES |