Nocturnal Walk
There are times when the street lights
Go out quite suddenly, even when the houses, near and far,
Still have the glow of domestic lights.
At such times the road is quite dark and the traveler has
enough scope
For musing, if he be so inclined. I am certainly one such.
I find the darkness curiously restful,
When one can still look at light with an orange moon,
Large and almost as bright as the one
That we see in April when the wheat is harvested.
The benighted trees stood dark and umbrageous
Against the luminous sky. Such moments are almost
Preternatural in their calm and stillness.
I wondered that day how many found the darkness as
attractive
And look a especial delight in the night sky, and the late stars,
And the moon. How many indeed were abroad at the hour,
Alone, but quite happy to let their minds run on
As they savored the benighted landscape.
Not too many perhaps, nor were there many who would understand
The fugitive aspect of things, the bloom upon the rose,
The morning dew or the gossamer visitation
Of a long forgotten memory, that I constantly sought
To realize and convey, knowing that I would never find
Either much applause, or much of anything
By way of popular success. Yet must I pursue
The lonely quest of the elusive glory
That vanishes in the apprehension.
That seems so far; yet is everywhere
And is indeed the basis of everything
