Page:Ephemera, Greek prose poems (IA ephemeragreek00buckrich).pdf/17



When it is night, before the moon has risen and the skies are spattered thick with stars; when, in the distance, all things blend into one and the sleeping earth touches the archèd sky, I stand before my tiny hut and pray.

Below me on the hillside, their coats glowing softly in the starlight, lie my sheep. And from the trees, the brooks, the grasses, the incessant chorus of midsummer nights trills through the air.

Yet I know not to what or to whom I pray. Not to the sun or moon for they are nowhere to be seen; not to the gods for there is no temple nor even a statue here; not to the stars for there are too many and some, neglected, would be jealous.

Perhaps it is to the sighing wind I pray; perhaps to the shadows and the rolling hills; perhaps to the night itself which seems so peaceful, all embracing, mysteriously divine.