NOCTURNE The long day was bright, It slowly passed from the purple slopes of the hill; And then the night Came floating quietly down, and the world grew still. Now I lay awake, The south wind stirs the white curtains to and fro. Cries the corncrake In fields that stretch by the stream-side, misty and low. At the meadow's edge I know the faint pink clover is heavy with dew. Under the hedge The speedwell closes its sweet eyes, dreamily blue. With pursed rosy lips The baby buds are asleep on the apple tree. The river slips Beneath the scarcely swayed willows, on to the sea. The dark grows, and grows, But I'm too happy to sleep, and the reason why No creature knows, Save certain little brown birds, and my love, and I. -- Frances Wynne