Walter John De la Mare

Night

All from the light of the sweet moon
    Tired men lie now abed;
Actionless, full of visions, soon
    Vanishing, soon sped.

The starry night aflock with beams
    Of crystal light scarce stirs:
Only its birds—the cocks, the streams,
    Call 'neath heaven's wanderers.

All silent; all hearts still;
    Love, cunning, fire fallen low:
When faint morn straying on the hill
    Sighs, and his soft airs flow.