The clock, as I look up, is only at eleven,
And I rejoice in these long autumn evenings.
Laying down my pen, my heart quickens
To think that the time is mine.
Rising I take a book from the shelf.
To browse in a book late at night
Is to me more precious
Than for a reaper, halting his scythe,
To look up awhile into the sky.
Gently I cut the first page.
The book I commence tonight
Is my journey to an unknown world;
At first ’tis well the author and I
Should walk a little apart.
Reverently I cut the next page.
Insects, perchance, thinking too tedious,
My reading alone, silently,
Very gaily on my behalf,
Begin to sing by the front veranda.
