End of the Comedy

Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls. 
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion; 
The delicate music is lost 
In the blare of home-going crowds 
And a midnight paper.

The night has grown martial; 
It meets us with blows and disaster. 
Even the stars have turned shrapnel, 
Fixed in silent explosions. 
And here at our door 
The moonlight is laid 
Like a drawn sword. 

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on April 18, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.