Night

The silver plate in night's black sky is cold, it shines effulgent bright and brilliant bold. This beacon shows the way for lesser lights, as they proceed across dark startling heights. The honeysuckle vine scent lingers late, an essence fine methinks doth titillate. Now pungent smoke of lasting burning leaves, is pleasing fume as everyman believes. The clacking wheels of trains at night on rail, with lonely distant whistle notes do wail. In harbor, buoy tolls to sails and boats, a clangor's peal - avoid moors, lines, and floats. Now chirping crickets play in plains and field, and singing mockingbirds their notes do yield. A time to take our ease, relax from grind, as restful sleep again renews our mind. The evening lights do surely glow in space, each sparkle like a diamond laid with grace. With many savors permeating, quite, and other senses, we enjoy the night.