Richard Dehmel (1863–1920)

WHEN the night on fields is sinking,

Then my eyes can see more brightly:

Now my star begins its blinking,

Crickets’ whispers grow more sprightly.

Every sound becomes more glowing,

Things accustomed now seem queerer;

Paler too the skies are growing

Near the woods, the tree tops clearer.

Meditating, never heeding

How the myriad lights are showered

Out of darkness, on I’m speeding—

Now I stop all overpowered.