Page:Poems PiattVol2.djvu/104

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92
THE NIGHT COMETH.
Working forever on this one white thing!
Why, of a truth, it should be fair to see
And sweet to sleep in. Love, you need not bring
          Your lamp to me.

Look you,—the graveyard moon ariseth. So,—
That light is for the blind. Now let me be.
Listen!—the graveyard wind. There! I will go.
          It calleth me.