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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Frank S. Gordon

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Night

Frank S. Gordon

From “Along the South Star Trail”
Tribal Songs from the South-west

WOEFUL, hear the shadows creep;

Woeful, hear the tread of sleep.

Who spoke?

It was a lone whip-poor-will

By the fallen tree, chanting mournfully

For the dead, or stretching a memory thread

Between the Now and Other Years;

Striking his harp

Of tears.

Sweetness, see the stars appear;

Sweetness, see the eyes draw near.

Who winked?

It was the smallest fire-fly,

Here and there and now nowhere,

Dust of star come down so far

To the little Below from the great Above,

Flashing his signals

Of love.

Lovely, see the moon aflush;

Lovely, see the maiden blush.

Who whispered?

It was the tiny hidden spring,

From light caress of tenderness

Sending back on a trembling track

A kiss from the Here to a golden Sphere;

Lifting her lips

In fear.

Wondrous, hear the night-wings whir.

Wondrous, hear the phantoms stir.

Who sighed?

It was the little top-most leaf

Of aspen bough, when rocked somehow

By a hand somewhere; hearing the air

Of that which Is in that which Seems,

Wafting its heart

Of dreams.

Holy, feel the touch of dew;

Holy, feel the kiss anew.

Who breathed?

It was the humblest flower,

Whose humid scent in petal tent

Turned up the flap and, joy enwrapped,

Escaped the clay to float on air;

Nodding her head

In prayer.

Sadness, touch of the mystic scene—

Sadness, touch of the hand unseen!

Who prayed?

It was I, but a new-born babe,

Whose thoughts unpent, in bewilderment,

Fumbled for light in the web of night;

A cry of nothingness unto infinite skies;

Sweeping my strings

Of sighs.