WHEN THE NIGHT WIND HOWLS by: W.S. Gilbert

WHEN the night wind howls
In the chimney cowls,
And the bat in the moonlight flies,
And the inky clouds,
Like funeral shrouds,
Sail over the midnight skies--

When the footpads quail
At the night-bird’s wail,
And black dogs bay at the moon,
Then is the spectre’s holiday--
Then is the ghost’s high noon!

Ha! Ha!

Then is the ghost’s high noon!

As the sob of the breeze
Sweeps over the trees
And the mists lie low on the fen,
From grey tomb-stones
Are gathered the bones
That once were women and men,

And away they go,
With a mop and a mow,
To the revel that ends too soon,
For cock crow limits our holiday--
The dead of the night’s high noon!

Ha! Ha!

The dead of the night’s high noon!

And then each ghost
With his ladye-toast
To their church yard beds take flight,
With a kiss, perhaps,
On her lantern chaps,
And a grisly grim, “good night!”

Till the welcome knell
Of the midnight bell
Rings forth its jolliest tune,
And ushers in our next high holiday--
The dead of the night’s high noon!

Ha! Ha!

The dead of the night’s high noon!

Night Vision-Sonnet L'abbe

His wife dreams of silent flight

On a drive on narrow roads
outside the city
she points to the red horizon,
where the sun, a hydrogent zepplin,
akin aflame, lingers
inflated and floating along the highway,
as black silhouettes of balloons
rise with the moon
into the flushed sky.

Look, she says, twilight wears
a necklace of weightless onyx tears,
the moon a pendant, opal planet.

He replies that to him
they are round bellied bottles,
necks down, pured out
and hollow.
Baskets cling to their pouted lips,
like drops of liquor,
drips of euphoria tinged
with fear, last sips
of liquid attitude, from where
one looks upon the vastness
and see's the flat horizons curve.

Must you see pots in everything?
her sigh, the hush of fire.

But he has lied
what he really sees tonight
are question marks
in their distant outline, doubled
and considering their own reflections,
a darkness inside them empty
as the negative goblet
of space between two facing profiles
They are wondering
how we travel so far
on warm wordless breaths,
and aking themselves
who they are.

"I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote something, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of somethings has always been and always will be you. I miss you."

Mark Z. Danielewski

The sun, whose rays Are all ablaze With ever-living glory,
Does not deny His majesty He scorns to tell a story!
He don't exclaim, "I blush for shame, So kindly be indulgent."
But, fierce and bold, In fiery gold, He glories all effulgent!
I mean to rule the earth, As he the sky
We really know our worth, The sun and I!
Observe his flame, That placid dame,
The moon's Celestial Highness;
There's not a trace Upon her face Of diffidence or shyness:
She borrows light That, through the night, Mankind may all acclaim her!
And, truth to tell, She lights up well, So I, for one, don't blame her!
Ah, pray make no mistake, We are not shy;
We're very wide awake, The moon and I

W.S Gilbert