End of the Comedy

Eleven o’clock, and the curtain falls.

The cold wind tears the strands of illusion;

The delicate music is lost

In the blare of home-going crowds

And a midnight paper.

The night has grown martial;

It meets us with blows and disaster.

Even the stars have turned shrapnel,

Fixed in silent explosions.

And here at our door

The moonlight is laid

Like a drawn sword.