At night all rooms are black

Every voice is dark. At night

All beauty of the earth’s countries

Are the same—the innocent—the guilty.

And each one talks to the other

At night, the beautiful and the thieves.

Past his house I steal—

Not that it really looks like yours at night!

And your neighbor—strangely unlike,

And on each passing—a knife

And I hang around in impotent rage

Under the huge black trees.

Oh, narrow underground bed

At night, in the dark, at night!

Oh, I’m afraid that I will get up

And whisper, and kiss your lips…

—Pray, dear children,—

For me at the first hour and the third hour.