Tropic Night
p. 51 · Read in the full issue
WHEN watch upon this night I keep (I cannot sleep, I cannot sleep), Each little sound I count and keep.
The crickets string an endless round Of bead-like noises, sound on sound, With never ending to each round.
A tocsin on the bath’s dull tin Marks each slow drip the tap drops in, The slow lake swelling in the tin.
A nightbird tries a nervous note Within its hoarse nocturnal throat, And then adds still another note.
From the sad stirring of the sea, It might be crying quietly— Faint sobbing from an unquiet sea.
And nearest is the silly flop Of moths which from the lamps heat drop, Only to seek it more—and flop.
Now stirs the wind and all the trees Lean in an animated frieze— This restless night with silvered trees Guadalcanal, BSI.
R.M.