The Night, by Blake Wall

The night is a thief,
its shadows, hiding places
and the moon its prying eye.
They that walk under its boughs
are in dismay,
for who knows what in sleeping corners lie.
All is silent as night holds its breath,
waiting for weary travelers
to lay down their heads
on cold grass,
and then to bestow
upon them misfortune.
In company with others
night claims no hold,
but when one walks from
warm food and hot fire,
be warned,
for calamity and injustice
is the way of night.

Yet dawn is a guardsman,
one who drives the night away.

For what is darkness
but lack of light?

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