IV. MIDNIGHT

Between the midnight pillars of black elms

The old moon hangs, a thin, cold, amber flame

Over low ghostly mist: a lone snipe wheels

Through shadowy moonshine, droning; and there steals

Into my heart a fear without a name

Out of primaeval night's resurgent realms,

Unearthly terror, chilling me with dread

As I lie waking wide-eyed on the bed.

And then you turn towards me in your sleep

Murmuring, and with a sigh of deep content

You nestle to my breast and over me

Steals the warm peace of you; and, all fear spent,

I hold you to me sleeping quietly,

Till I, too, sink in slumber sound and deep.