Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/The Night Cometh
THE NIGHT COMETH.
Fold up the work wherein, hour after hour, (Only to sew my shroud, then, was I born?)I've wrought faint pictures, look, of many a flower And many a thorn.
Yea, many a flower. Some bridal blossoms; some Spell my dead children's names in their sweet way;One blew in Eden ere the Snake had come;— And these are they.
Yea, many a thorn. Behold, my hand hath bled Even in tracing them, so sharp were they,On this long shivering garment.—Did His head Wear such, that day?
I can but think me how, before the dew Melted in sunrise, and when noon was hot,Till on the dusk my coffin's shadow grew, I rested not,—
Working forever on this one white thing! Why, of a truth, it should be fair to seeAnd sweet to sleep in. Love, you need not bring Your lamp to me.
Look you,—the graveyard moon ariseth. So,— That light is for the blind. Now let me be.Listen!—the graveyard wind. There! I will go. It calleth me.