The nights are hardly long enough for me.
Each minute is a madly flapping wing
Which has some vital message I can’t see,
It flies so swiftly. When I try to sing
My simple songs here in the quiet lee
Of evening’s hush, the baleful numbered ring
Of figures on the clock becomes a blur,
So fast the moving hands. But in the day,
My dragging leaded feet keep time with her
Who soars the tireless blue in search of prey
In slow, high turn that just the wind may stir–
So move the sunlit hours with feet of clay
To change to swifter tempo as the light
Fades into quickly gathered welcome night.
by Ray Romine Thursday, January 20, 1944
