9:45 on a fine June night,
I watch from the window and write and write
As the fields are lit by the blood-eyed flight
Of the westering sun— as trees ignite,
And the shadows lance in the slanted light,
Each leaf a halo of fire, more bright
Than the pale moon clothed in mottle and white,
Awaiting the arms of her purple knight.

Little is moving in Eden this night:
The ears of an owl on his branchy height,
Or the plop of a frog as he sinks from sight,
As a martin blurs like a sickle kite
Of gunmetal grey...  and I write and write
This hymn of delight in an English light.