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Never, never, never.
Nevermore his feet upon the threshold:
O the trumpet that pealed upon the threshold/
Nevermore, never, never.


By the pool, listening,
I heard silence enfold the night:
Where the wet trees o
Make a darkness of my garden.


And again, a third time,
The silence of the night was filled with voices:
Antiphonal voices like the trumpets of the sons of God
Pealing from star to star across the ramparts of heaven;
Answering voices hushed like the stillness
Of one dead who will not awaken.
The silence after the song had ceased,
The silence that followed after

The tears of another,
Were aflame and terrible with voices.

What is the silence of the night to us?
Or the tears of a woman?
Or the singing of a girl in the darkness?
Or the silence after the singing?
What to us are silence and song?


Over and under and about the silence
And through the silence
And filling the silence,

While dawn

Moving over the darkness
Touched like a lover the pool in my garden,
The voices of the night met and mingled
And were one:

Make an end of tears in the night:
Make an end of singing in the darkness:
Sing in the dawn, the dawn /
In the dawn make a song of your tears:
Let your tears be a song for ever
In the great silence.

In the hush of dawn
Between the night and the day
I heard this voice,
A voice like the stillness of God.
Maurice Browne /


A great white leopard prowling silently -
Over the house-tops, up and down the sky,
Trailing its ermine and its ivory—
The lithe and sinuous snow creeps softly by.

The air is crowded and the day alight;
The houses etched in stuccoed boundaries
Loom radiant, while in capricious flight
The snow paints ghostly summer on the trees.

With opals and with lustered silks inlaid . The snow spreads out its long unbroken seas,

And frames each house in candied masquerade

Of quaint and crystaline geometries.

Perhaps the snow is an enchanted rain,
Or, swarming white and gently to and fro,
The souls of little birds come back again
And searching for the sky they used to know.

The snow falls thicker, and a spectral night
Bursts without sunset in a wind-whirled glow,
Blotting the day and leaving more alight
The glistening white nocturne of the snow.

The stiff and tangled avenues become

Like some vague field of dreams that hides behind

A strange and delicate delirium
Of labyrinthine pallors, swift and blind.

The snow seems rising—a fantastic spray
Some sharp and sinister wind has given wing;
And all the world is blowing fast away,
The houses and the trees first vanishing.

The world is but a shimmering pastel,
A whimsically chiseled cameo
Whose life seems only the ephemeral
And pale diaphonous music of the snow.

The snow has ended and the highways lie
In lacquered desolation; and outthrown
The blue and staring shadow of the sky
Appears above the emptied air—alone.

The night is not so silent as the snow
And yet the night is dark and mute and deep—

The faery stains that wander to and fro
Ben Hecht /

Are what the night is dreaming in its sleep.

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The morning is
Sunlight—rainlight. . .
O morning of blowing rainbows!
It glistens and sings
Like a sea-shell
Out of cool, curling waters.


Over the bending boughs
Of the acacia
Falls a shower
Of golden light,

Like the song of sun-rains.


Out of the dawn
Trembling with moon-mist
The glow of a sun-gold rose!
Wild as a wood-bird note,
Fragrant as crushed red wine.

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