On Writing Poetry Late at Night

 

Time, did you suppose you might sedate

My passion into hush, now that the hour

Has stretched its way from early into late?

Your hands are light–too light to wield such power!

My dreaming joy is like a tropic flower

That neither day nor night can subjugate;

It scorns to close in eveningtime or cower

When tigers howl and rainstorms saturate

The shrouded ground with floods of streaming gray.

 

I seek my fill in day and nighttime’s deep;

Light-fed, I find in darkness, too, a ray

To slake me: something rustled from its sleep—

Sucked up from sun, and strong enough to stay.

 

So time–be still! This vigil I shall keep!

 

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