An August Midnight
A shaded lamp and a waving blind,And the beat of a clock from a distant floor:On this scene enter—winged, horned, and spined—A longlegs, a moth, and a dumbledore;While ’mid my page there idly standsA sleepy fly, that rubs its hands . . .
Thus meet we five, in this still place,At this point of time, at this point in space.—My guests parade my new-penned ink,Or bang at the lamp-glass, whirl, and sink.“God’s humblest, they!” I muse. Yet why?They know Earth-secrets that know not I.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.