Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.
The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;
The delicate music is lost
In the blare of home-going crowds
And a midnight paper.
The night has grown martial;
It meets us with blows and disaster.
Even the stars have turned shrapnel,
Fixed in silent explosions.
And here at our door
The moonlight is laid
Like a drawn sword.
Louis Untermeyer (1885 – 1977) was an American poet, anthologist, critic, and editor.
To read more poems, click here.
Love my work? Support my journey by buying me a coffee or sharing it on your preferred social network. And don’t forget to swing by my online shop to check out my latest prints and gifts. Thank you 🙏 !
Follow me on Instagram | Facebook | Threads | LinkedIn | Tumblr | X | Buy Me A Coffee
