Night Has Come Under The Trees

Night has come under the Trees Waiting Waiting nervous and Impatient His love for to-night The moon. Below Below the bastions Lengthen their shadows To black cloths Of mourning funereal Since The red dusk Flourished over the port The water stiff Lawyers of the open port Sit still and mute Furrowed by the silver Linearity of the moon’s Light. Nocturnal a bell Rings In Fort Saint Angelo: But ah! The service be Only Only for the locale Ghosts and shrouds. Yet in the night The skies trembled Tremble With the halo stars That peep and manifest Their angst nocturnal To the hidden breeze Of wild Aeolus. From the sparse caves The siren hoots Flourish And echo around the port Only For ears of fairies Nymphs and Inhabitants general of the night And Poet Seers. Kronos stits on a wall Of rubble dilapidated From the fort of old Old, old Saint Angelo: Mourning the centuries That went. For what you did Is stifled: That is the foot print Of the grave The tomb: Whatever you did And were or else Stifled silent and Mute under the moss Of stones that sweat With magic mists of night. The Sphinx is restless: But even she Yet even She Is here hidden well Behind a well of wishes In the fort down Down Abysmal to the depths of The port sea. ‘Tele, tele, tele.’ Said the old hag. And it was night And dawn asleep Was far Far from blessing earth Hours had to pass For yet another dawn And stars to fall Sudden and white faced to the sea.