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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.
posted by Peter J. Leithart on Sunday, June 27, 2004 at 06:28 PM
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