De Noche

O mother of all the dark!

Draw near, on tiptoe,

Blindfold me, and say:

Go to sleep-to sleep-to sleep.

If only the hills of the night would stay in their steadfast

places-

Bulging bulk of the hulk of the range.

They creep, like a she-panther, to where I rest in the

valley;

They come, down-tumbling, to where I lie on the pine

boughs... .

The river runs away.

The aspens, by the runaway river, are afraid.