Until I passed an alley, where the night
Ought to have lain with secrecy entranced,
I’d never turned my eyes up from the street
That ran around me like a box, nor glanced
Up at the inside of its grey box lid.

I stopped a moment, for its beauty seemed
Calm and urbane at rest there on the roofs;
Palest of turquoise, shot with orange where
The dockside street lights blazed; yet, unredeemed
By moon or star’s uncivilised reproofs,
Merely a flat sky, blindly sleeping there.

Returning home a hundred miles, I stood
Under a sky of velvet black that swept
The circling horizon like a cloak,
And the cold stars with silent laughter stirred
My soul from its long torpor of neglect.
Somewhere within me wonder re-awoke.

I thought of days of summer, when the sun
Beats on these high hard hills, so close
That one could reach and touch him; and of chill
Autumn’s open vistas, when the sun
That rose applecheeked sets in blood behind the hill.

Then night is total, and the village lights
Are of small comfort.  Night here is not tame;
The stars are not dulled, and the moon not mild;
Here the dark arches overall, and flights
Of arrowing stars shine coldly.  When I came
Home, I exulted that my skies were wild.