Anne Alloway
Posted on May 15 2017
And in the hour when blooms unfurl
thoughts of my loved one comes to me.
The moths of evening whirl
around the snowball tree.
Nothing now shouts or sings;
one house only whispers, then hushes.
Nestlings sleep beneath wings,
like eyes beneath their lashes.
Adapted from A Night Blooming Jasmine
By Giovanni Pascoli