One September Night

At one with me, this silence

Serves as death,

For no long sighs will ever

Catch at my breath.

 

Such times have gone, and rhythms

Subtly change,

Where love in me lay dying

Lies only pain.

 

For love itself, so weary now

Has tired of me,

Its darts lie shattered, spent

And lent, disastrously!

 

While I plod on, toward some

Unforgiving night,

Where dreams still tilt at shadows,

Try as they might!

 

David Lewis Paget