Beneath the Canopy of Night
When images of distant hills
turn more solemn, still and strange,
and all nature seems prognostic
of some dark and more deadly change.
In a star-filled midnight Heaven,
brooding and full of new-born thought
the patient poet stands watching
by whom liberation is brought.
Under trees all clothed in silver,
near the houses touched with white,
as chilly Winter kisses Earth
beneath the canopy of night –
He must bow in silent homage
to the pallid and pensive train
of stars that shine down such glory
on this wintery spirit’s reign.
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