The Breath Of Night

The moon rises. The red cubs rolling

In the ferns by the rotten oak

Stare over a marsh and a meadow

To the farm's white wisp of smoke.

A spark burns, high in heaven.

Deer thread the blossoming rows

Of the old orchard, rabbits

Hop by the well-curb. The cock crows

From the tree by the widow's walk;

Two stars in the trees to the west,

Are snared, and an owl's soft cry

Runs like a breath through the forest.

Here too, though death is hushed, though joy

Obscures, like night, their wars,

The beings of this world are swept

By the Strife that moves the stars.