Twilight Hour

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Twilight Hour

Poem

Why grows mute my pen in this twilight hour,
Why ink ebbs and doth sputtering cease?
Can draw no more from night’s black tear
Nor a sharp syllable from the crimson rose.

My mind’s heaving ocean unnaturally settled,
Conniving with a mar-faced wily crone-moon.
The tempests to a cold bottom are retreated,
An abrupt winter has set on my sunny noon.

The coel’s throat is without tune, the eyes shut
Of peacock-plumes by a lid dull and grey,
The skylark forgets its dreams of flight 
And sits head drooping like some avian lay.

The clouds wander like a forlorn tribe exiled,
The stars have dimmed their shine to a point,
Night an unsure vacillating realm has turned 
And the day proffers no assured argument.

Oh why hast Thou cast me to this melancholy den
That abhors my passion and annuls my pen!