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Home  »  Poetry: A Magazine of Verse  »  Orrick Johns

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Haunt

Orrick Johns

WHEN night comes I fold my wings,

I must sleep.

When night comes I do not wake

And do not weep.

I drop down like dust that falls

By the roads,

Where with green irreverent feet

Pass the toads.

When night comes the phantoms rise—

Fear and Lust;

Over me they pass like toads

In the dust.

When night comes I call no bride

To my bed,

Fearful lest I give men life

Who are dead!