Morris Gilbert

IN some inimical starry night

When the worthies are abed,

Suddenly will come a flight

Of baleful things about your head.

These will not be simply bats

(These, imponderable as leaves),

These will not be timid gnats—

These will be audacious thieves:

Devils of the midnight’s action,

Wrong ones of the twisted spheres,

A fluttering unholy faction

Of Port Havoc mutineers.

In your spirit’s corridors

There will, that night, be strange things:

What were dances will be wars,

There will be vain imaginings—

Slaughter and knavery and laughter,

Sights to make a man afraid,

Boozing, cajoling, boasts, and after

(I need not say) you’ll be betrayed….

Since the story is so bitter

The quaint world will find its proofs—

What is left of you will flitter

Like a grey cat on the roofs.