From the Evening Public Ledger, May 12, 1915. By James Stephens.
The night was creeping on the ground,
She crept along without a sound
Until she reached the tree, and then
She covered it, and stole again
Along the grass up to the wall.
I heard the rustle of her shawl
Inside the room where I was hid;
But no matter what she did
To everything that was without,
She could not put my candle out.
So I peeped at the night, and she
Stared back solemnly at me.