The Night How Does It Yield Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

The night how does it yield
Its tearful eyes to the pale smiles
Of the white languid moon:

The fertile fields yield flowers to the sun
The owl yieldeth its wild call
Unto the echoing glooms of night
Tu-whoo! Tu-whit! Tu-whoo!
The nightingale yieldeth its grief
Unto the pitying firmament
That cloaks with azure black
With every dusk our earth below

Now cemeteries open their doors
And yield their graves unto the shining night
Of the pale autumn moon
A-now the graves yield up their frozen corpses
To the night and to the pale and languid moon