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 wildbeasts 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.







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