AN ECHO OF WIDE NIGHT
The room is turning slowly away from the moon,
and rain is running down gilded glass,
weeping your name.
The melancholy storm is calling you,
casting shadows of gloom to the darkness,
whistling and rumbling a low lament.
How long are these dark and dreamless passages to sleep?
And when will the wounded night be still?
So restless in your absence, I move
with every tempestuous moan,
entreating entry at my window.
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Comments about this poem (AN ECHO OF WIDE NIGHT by Dawn Eve Bradley )
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