The Night

cold and barren,

the windswept fields,

dark and gray

in the moonlight walking,

through wooded meadows

she calls;

and I must go;

her voice

beckoning my soul

to come lie at her feet,

she washes my face

with raven hair,

wet with teardrops

from things

unseen,

unknown;

in her arms

I know no fear;

she is the night,

when she calls

no man resists her voice;

she is the darkness

living in us all.