Reflections in the Moonlight

Eleven to twelve, the wind is out

Can you hear its frosty breath?

Leaves a’rustle, over the roots

Of sylvan sentinels with verdant tresses

As drained of colour as the deathly pallor

Of the face of the night, which I have seen

Wicked doings and silent trysts,

But for the greater part, indifference;

For all the vigour of youthful life,

Day by day, it nears its end

And what remains but the night,

Its silvery light

Uncaring beauty, it ends each day

But the next dawn? I hear you say

Oh! Hope the foolish jealously guard –

You see a new day, each day –

All I see is death awaiting her turn

In the wings, to dance her dance

And in her whirls I see the truth.

For each beginning is but an end,

Waiting patiently for its turn