The host, he says that all is well
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,-
But on the window licks the night.
Pile on the logs... Give me your hands,
Friends! No,- it is not fright...
But hold me... somewhere I heard demands...
And on the window licks the night.
.....amazing...and true. I've read some people have a phobia of the night..Although I'm not sure if this is common, I hope not ★
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Looking back, knowing that Hart Crane accomplished suicide, the last two lines have a deep, intense despair about them. I can literally 'feel' his words breathing upon my heart. No fear, just an answering of a far-off call, a darkness 'licking' at the window of the soul. Incredible poem...