The Night Builds Her Temple of Rain

The night builds her temple of rain : In the forest a sobbing music Played by the hands of darkness On the scale of dark leaves.

No bird-song stirs the soul; Nor the golden dawn-harmonies; A cry, a shedding of tears, A music of sable tonalities.

Truly, a temple of silence and sound, A vibrant, and dim solitude, A gray telling of black beads; A prayer, a moan, a dim worship.