Discover more from Dead Poets Daily
Prelude for Darkness
The night is hanging, inviolate, On the last hour Of suspended day. The night will be heavy, inanimate; And I lose myself In contemplation Of turbulent tomorrows. Yet the night is incensed With the possibility Of still more strange days, Many shadowed hours. And I say to myself: O my soul, be not self-succumbed; Be strategic, and mingle with the night, As insistent monotones of mist Push down and mingle With the street-beat of the rain. Great finalities of pain Are made of just such things; While shapeless moods are moving Slowly across dark sky.