The Secret Splendour

Voices of large-eyed day

Have fallen now.

The birds in a huddle of sleep

Their small heads bow.

A worshipping quiet broods -

Until the moon

Presses a silver call

Through lids of swoon.

Kindling with name less joy

 Answers each throat:

From neither night nor day

The strange cries float -

As if bird-reveries climbed

Unearthly skies

Their wings a moonlight flicker

Of tranceful eyes.

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