Summerdark, when the hedges sway,
and the chill wind shifts to moan,
seeps into me like the absent rain
and cools my weary bones.

The moon is gone from the redgrey sky,
though Mars and the Dogstar stay,
standing watch over heath and rye,
until the break of day.

The linden sheds its lacy tears
upon the dewy hill;
an owl rustles leaf and limb,
then suddenly goes still.

The night is short, though growing long
with every passing hour,
and here I sit while the wide world sleeps,
drinking in the power

of darkness deep and silence shrill
which seems to have no end
and listening for the memories
of a long forgotten friend.

Be still my child, and rest till dawn
for the witching hour’s nigh,
and dream a dream of lives unlived,
for which you’ll never cry.

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