Midnight

Midnight is come,
And thinly in the deepness of the gloom
Truth rises startle-eyed out of a tomb,
And we are dumb.

A death-bell tolls,
And we still shudder round the too smooth bed,
For truth makes pallid watch above the dead,
Freezing our souls.

But day returns,
Light and the garish life, and we are brave,
For Truth sinks wanly down into her grave.
Yet the heart yearns.

To the Little Bed at Night

Good-night, little bed, with your patient white pil-
low,
Your light little spread, and your blanket of yel-
low!
I wonder what leaves you so pensive to-night—
The breezes are tender, the stars are so bright,
I should think you would wrinkle a little and smile,

Max Eastman

1918

To the Ascending Moon

Rise, rise, aerial creature, fill the sky
With supreme wonder, and the bleak earth wash
With mystery! Pale, pale enchantress, steer
Thy flight high up into the purple blue,
Where faint the stars beholding — rain from there
Thy lucent influence upon this sphere!
I fear thee, sacred mother of the mad!

Max Eastman

1918

Earth's Night

Sombre,
Sombre is the night, the stars’ light is dimmed
With smoky exhalations of the earth,
Whose ancient voice is lifted on the wind
In ceaseless elegies and songs of tears.
O earth, I hear thee mourning for thy dead!
Thou art waving the long grass over thy graves;
Murmuring over all thy resting children,

Max Eastman

1918

Poems

Midnight

More by this poet

To the Little Bed at Night

To the Ascending Moon

Earth's Night

Poems

Page submenu block

Midnight

More by this poet

To the Little Bed at Night

To the Ascending Moon

Earth's Night

Newsletter Sign Up