Night


Night has fallen over the country. Through the trees rises the red moon,
 
and the stars are scarcely seen. In the vast shadow of night the coolness
 
and  the  dews  descend.  I  sit  at  the  open  window  to  enjoy  them;  and  hear
 
only  the  voice  of  the  summer  wind.  Like  black  hulks,  the  shadows  of  the
 
great trees ride at anchor on the billowy sea of grass. I cannot see the
 
red and blue flowers, but I know that they are there. Far away in the meadow
 
gleams the silver Charles(1). The tramp of horses' hoofs sounds from the
 
wooden bridge. Then all is still save the continuous wind of the  summer
 
night.  Sometimes  I  know  not  if  it  be  the  wind  or  the  sound  of  the neighboring sea.(2) The village clock strikes; and I feel that I  am  not alone.
 
How  different  it  is  in  the  city!  It  is  late,  and  the  crowd  is  gone.  You
 
step  out  upon  the  balcony,  and  lie  in  the  very  bosom  of  the  cool,  dewy
 
night  as  if  you  folded  her  garments  about  you.  Beneath  lies  the  public
 
walk with trees, like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose silent darkness
 
the spirit plunges, and floats away with some beloved spirit clasped in
 
its  embrace.  The  lamps  are  still  burning  up  and  down  the  long  street.
 
People   go   by   with   grotesque   shadows,   now   foreshortened,   and   now
 
lengthening away into the darkness and vanishing, while a new one springs
 
up  behind  the  walker,  and  seems  to  pass  him  revolving  like  the  sail  of
 
a windmill(3). The iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang. There
 
are footsteps and loud voices;--a tumult;--a drunken brawl;--an alarm of
 
fire;--then silence again. And now at length the city is asleep,  and  we
 
can  see  the  night.  The  belated  moon  looks  over  the  roofs,  and  finds  no
 
one  to  welcome  her.  The  moonlight  is  broken.  It  lies  here  and  there  in
 
the squares, and the opening of the streets- angular like blocks of white
 
marble.