The night builds her temple of rain: In the forest a sobbing music Played by the hands of darkness On the scale of dark leaves. No bird-song stirs the soul; Nor the golden dawn-harmonies; A cry, a shedding of tears, A music of sable tonalities. Truly, a temple of silence and sound, A vibrant, and dim solitude, A gray telling of black beads; A prayer, a moan, a dim worship | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WOODSMOKE AT 70 by HAYDEN CARRUTH FOR ST. BARTHOLOMEW'S EVE by MALCOLM COWLEY IN LOVE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GIFT TO SING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON HOUSE WITH THE MARBLE STEPS by AMY LOWELL |