Sunday Sonnet

Late this Sunday…with an appropriate photo.

Four

The Winter Moon has such a quiet car ;
That all the winter nights are dumb with rest.
She drives the gradual dark with drooping crest
And dreams go wandering from her drowsy star
Because the nights are silent do not wake
But there shall tremble through the general earth,
And over you, a quickening and a birth.
The Sun is near the hill-tops for your sake.

The latest born of all the days shall creep
To kiss the tender eyelids of the year ;
And you shall wake, grown young with perfect
sleep,

And smile at the new world and make it dear
With living murmurs more than dreams are deep ;
Silence is dead, my dawn, the morning’s here.

Hilaire Bolloc

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