by Djuna Barnes
The night comes down, in ever-darkening shapes that seem--
To grope, with eerie fingers for the window--then--
To rest to sleep, enfolding me, as in a dream
Faith--might I awaken!
And drips the rain with seeming sad, insistent beat.
Shivering across the pane, drooping tear-wise,
And softly patters by, like little fearing feet.
The feathery ash is fluttered; there upon the pane,--
The dying fire casts a flickering ghostly beam,--
Then closes in the night and gently falling rain.