Summer Night

Silently the clouds cross the sky, The wind whispers through the leaves of trees, The moon has not yet risen, And the last rays of light have faded away. A few stars shed their feeble light, Portending what is to come, The flowers of day close to sleep, And the flowers of night awake. The jasmine is still heavy in the air, The grass weak from the day’s sun, Yields softly underneath, And the nightingale sings. The pomegranate tree drooping to the ground, Hangs heavy with fruit laden, Beckoning to Persephone, To herald the coming of fall. The June-bugs arise from their sleep, Crawling from out the grass, To fly clumsily into the night, And complete their journey ere the moon rises. The moon, ever eager to tarry, Graces not the sky till late, The resplendent stars, freed of competition, Blaze in their chill fury. The breeze speaks of the scents of the earth, Of green and growing things, That have bequeathed such tidings, From time immemorial. The night speaks of power and purity, Of knowledge of its dark embrace, Yet the comforting folds of night surround, And give the world melancholy peace.