Night fell one year ago, like this. He had been writing steadily. Among these dusky walls of books, How bright he looked, intense as flame! Suddenly he paused, The firelight in his hair, And said, “The time has come to go” I took his hand; We watched the logs burn out; The apple boughs fingered the window;Down the cool, spring nightA slim, white moon leaned to the hill. [1]
Night fell one year ago, like this.
O white moon, I wonder if he sleeps in woods Where there are leaves? Or if he lies in some black trench, His hands, his kind hands, kindling flame that kills?Or if, or if …He is here now, to bid me last good-night?
Night fell one year ago, like this. He had been writing steadily. Among these dusky walls of books, How bright he looked, intense as flame! Suddenly he paused,The firelight in his hair, And said, “The time has come to go” I took his hand; We watched the logs burn out;
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}Literary Analysis
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