Poem By Tom Wolfe

The wasting helve of the moon rode into heaven
Over the bulk of the hills.
There was a smell of wet grass and lilac,
And the vast brooding symphony
Of the million-noted little night things,
Rising and falling in a constant ululation,
And inhabiting the heart
With steady unconscious certitude.

The pallid light drowned out the stars,
It lay like silence on the earth,
It dripped through the leafy web
Of the young maples,
Printing the earth with swarming moths
Of elvish light.

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Other poems of WOLFE


And who shall say—
Whatever disenchantment follows—
That we ever forget magic,

O Lost

We shall not come again.
We never shall come back again.
But over us all, over us all,

Like the River

Why are you absent in the night, my love?
Where are you when the bells ring in the night?
Now, there are bells again,


On the Square,
The slackened fountain
Dripped a fat spire of freezing water
Into its thickening rim of ice.

The Fading Light of Day

And the slant light steepened in the skies,
The old red light of waning day
Made magic fire upon the river,