Night by Clair Shadwell Smith

by Clair Shadwell Smith

The grey and death-like, quiet night.
          Where, in its non-directed light,
The moon from four horizons shines,
Revealing naught but softest lines
          Of hill and plain.

Where man’s hard shell of pride is lost,
          And lain aside, his soul the host,
Now clothed in softer gowns of thought,
No glare of day or deed is brought,
          To hide truth’s face.

How like the end of life, the day,
          When we have ceased our thoughtless way,
And our ennobling armor lain aside,
Defenseless, beside our selfish pride,
          We meet our God.

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