Night.

Robert Crawford 1959 (Bellshill)



The wings of Evening, spread like phantom sails
Athwart the waning west,
Now as the last thin streak of crimson fails,
Seem as with sleep possessed.
Now hope is changed to memory, and time
Becomes eternity,
As thought were chaunting to a runic rhyme
In some old mystery.
The shadows deepen, and the Night's weird stir
Seems like a spirit still
To tremble in the silence, as with her
Death walked invisible.
The heart can ken, e'en like an echo dead,
The eerie things they say
Who have come from a coast where none may tread
Within the dream of Day.
Night and her paramour — the last of things
That touch the soul with fear,
As that which deems that it is deathless clings
To its own shadow here.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on March 05, 2023

40 sec read
138

Quick analysis:

Scheme ABABCDCDEFEGHIHIJKJL
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 686
Words 132
Stanzas 1
Stanza Lengths 20

Robert Crawford

Robert Crawford FRSE FBA is a Scottish poet, scholar and critic. He is currently Professor of English at the University of St Andrews.  more…

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