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James Stephens

(9 February 1882 - 26 December 1950 / Dublin)

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The night was creeping on the ground;
She crept and did not make a sound
Until she reached the tree, and then
She covered it, and sole again
Along the grass beside the wall.

I heard the rustle of her shawl
As she threw blackness everywhere
Upon the sky and ground and air,
And in the room where I was hid:
But no matter what she did
To everything that was without,
She could not put my candle out.

So I stared at the night, and she
Stared back solemnly at me.

Submitted: Saturday, March 27, 2010
Edited: Thursday, May 10, 2012

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