Such friendly shades are broken on the form,
What company in my undreary stoop,
I fashion evening old with frantic work,
All as a dimmness of the evening clings:

"O heady midnight oil alight,
The talk of all invasive dreams,
I am impressed upon the night,
You are impressed upon the seams,
And as the talk draws starkly strange,
The dreams are quickened - I must be to bed."

Routine day at length from start to stop,
Like rusty clockwork ever in procession,
Travelling in tracks now deeply laid,
Through busy streets and winding sandstone lanes.

In the quiet walks come eve,
Woods are painted yellow-red,
The leaves are piled and glistened wet,
Assembled to chaotic tiles,
To build tomorrow's soil and life,
For shoots to rise up from their place.