Poetry 365

Evening

At the end of the gift of light, returning,
Draw, with white arm raised, the effective curtain,
Swiftly serry the folds in ranks of twilight,
Strike the camp of the day. Within are burning
Small reliable suns of yellow lamplight
On the fields of our room, where all is certain.

Morning

Slow, the whispering says that night is ended;
Life, awaiting the step of who shall live it,
Threads the chamber of gray and finds the sleeper
Half in doubt of the gift of light intended.
Fling the curtain, Serena, you the keeper
Give the room to the sun, let in the rivet!