When shepherds guard for angels
Plague and hazard
riding on their wings
O night, when
wolves run hungry through the dingles
Preying sheep that snooze
by forest lanes,
Where mushrooms,
black, lank, grow from who knows what
Where phantom
fires make the pilgrim stray
To where the wood-wise
robber lies in wait
Where light can’t fall,
for thickets shut the sky
O night, whose
terror makes the children pray
Whose secrets
are known only to the moon
While
white-faced hours inch so slowly by
God’s face is hid, and
all the stars aloof—
You brought to birth the blood that turned to wine:
So lives the world, O night—O night divine.
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