In the quiet of the night
beneath the sublet hues,
darkness comes from passing day
with the deepest blacks and blues

Everything is still now
and everything seems broken
and of the wind that softly whipsers
has now; a yawl not spoken

Beneath the oak, a sapling fern
and in it's moonlit sheen
lies hopes, and dreams of midnight sights
of the sky it has not seen.

Post the night now comes the day
and the sun now takes it's place
yet in the cold without the light
lies beauty without a face

And now I sleep and wait for dusk
for midnight and it's hues
to see the sights that lie beneath
the forests blackest blues.