Evensong

A full moon rises from behind
The topmost branches of a tree,
Then slants across the sky.

A pheasant?s shriek joins distant shouts,
The barks and laughter from the park,
On the cooling air.

Then comes the silence of the night:
Not the silence of the dead,
But too alive for sound,

Like a choir waiting poised,
Or like a watchful coiled cat,
Or like a breathless lover.