Rest ye now, weary soul.
The day's dread scorching wrath gives way to shade.
And lustrous Cynthia doth shine with borrowed light
Upon your window-sill.
As owl and cricket sound their mass,
Another worry's come to pass.
The roar of civilization must mute itself,
When the ebony cloak enwraps the sky.
The trees stand as solemn guardians from man's intrusion,
Their swaying limbs wafting away the tumult of daylight toil.
So let your body slip away
Until the coming of the day.
And live the life where stress and strain,
Give way to peaceful waking morn.
George Chadderdon © 1991