William H. Simpson

From “Along Old Trails”

NIGHT, you have soft fur,

And it is black;

I hear you purr, purr.

Night, you fly to my door,

A tired raven

From the world quarters four.

(Is your nest in the hedge

By the road,

Or on the moon’s edge?)

Night, you are a sleepy girl—

Arms around my neck,

Your dark hair in a whirl.