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Mercifully enfolding the nakedness of the world With a translucent garment.

POET: The great spaces are opened up And the largeness of Creation penetrates us. Night, tenderly secretive, soothing; Sending up mists like veils ; Making the groves secret and sacred ; Shrouding all things;

Filling the void with vaporous masses, vague, uncertain ; Infiltrating the inner chambers of the mind with wonder And leading out our thoughts to mystery. Even as we strip from our bodies the clothes of the day. So we strip from our minds the confusion of our turmoil, And stand soul-naked, learning pride in ourselves. Oh, all-embracing night, wherein I may loose my soul. Watchful and hovering, comforting and merciful ; Great bowl of purity, cool, purifying stream Endlessly flowing between the days.

TRUTH: What do the toilers know of the beauty of Night Or the dazzlery of lamps in the sky? What do they know of the blaze of the lower firmament

which they themselves have created, afloat upon the

darkness ; Caught, too, in waiving, liquid distortions in the rivers?

POET: What do the laborers know of the watchful trees Which by night seem to sleep, but are sentinels for lovers, Beckoning them to quiet cloisters, And breathing on them balsam and leafy odors? Do those who wrest all from the reluctant Mother Know the kindness and beauty of the Mother? Do they thrill with the cry of the night-birds,

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