If the nightfall spills into the air its darkish powder,
the trees are wavering and wimpering under the weight.
The root-sinews claw into the dirt down under,
with ever prouder tenacity they creech, cling, stand up straight.
Upstairs the stooped leaves proffer the night to the space:
the squinting stars wink at them with easy grace,
and till dawn they gobble up the whole without a trace.
With Atlas-courage supports the forest the blanket of blackness,
so that on the slumbering flowers may not subside the darkness.
The trees stretch out in the morning light,
as soldiers who have slept through the whole night.