Lights out. Shades up.

A look at the weather.

There has been a booming all the spring,

A refrain from the end of the boulevards.

This is the silence of night,

This is what could not be shaken,

Full of stars and the images of stars—

And that booming wintry and dull,

Like a tottering, a falling and an end,

Again and again, always there,

Massive drums and leaden trumpets,

Perceived by feeling instead of sense,

A revolution of things colliding.

Phrases! But of fear and of fate.

The night should be warm and fluters’ fortune

Should play in the trees when morning comes.

Once it was, the repose of night,

Was a place, strong place, in which to sleep.

It is shaken now. It will burst into flames,

Either now or tomorrow or the day after that.