The disbeliever walked the moonlit place,

Outside of gates of hammered serafin,

Observing the moon-blotches on the walls.

The yellow rocked across the still façades,

Or else sat spinning on the pinnacles,

While he imagined humming sounds and sleep.

The walker in the moonlight walked alone,

And each black window of the building balked

His loneliness and what was in his mind:

If in a shimmering room the babies came,

Drawn close by dreams of fledgling wing,

It was because night nursed them in its fold.

Night nursed not him in whose dark mind

The clambering wings of birds of black revolved,

Making harsh torment of the solitude.

The walker in the moonlight walked alone,

And in his heart his disbelief lay cold.

His broad-brimmed hat came close upon his eyes.