When the lovers finally are still,

The moon sent aloft over the hill,

The mighty angel army encamped

In shadow behind the table lamp;

As the stars spread then fold over

The gray quiet hills and the clover,

A hush comes on the sleeping world,

Like the deadly calm after a tragic war.

There’s the martyr in his cold stone cell,

Who thinks his window’s a wishing well.

He entreats the night with words that drone-

That get covered up by winds that moan.

And the night’s a lady in satin,

Moving with slow indifferent action.

Her skirt sweeps slyly past the window,

As the martyr bends, broken and low.

She sweeps down the moon with her palm,

To hide herself from claws of dawn.

Those fingers rip streams of brightest red,

And the sun puts light into her head.

As the lady turns suddenly old,

She just fades into the morning gold.

The lovers rise up rejoicing,

As the martyr seeks reinforcing.

And the angels breaking up camp;

Back to the turmoil and the war.

Straight into the atmosphere they tramp.

The lovers arise to do their part.