The Fall of Night

my new favorite Merton poem

THE FALL OF NIGHT

When the eleventh hour 
Unbars the burning west,
And all the clouds go home like flocks, 
The pines upon our barrier,
Stand in the gates of night, like laborers, 
And wait their pay.

A shepherd scans the white accounting of the evening star, 
And moonlight fires a brittle spear Into the windows of the cottager:
To the red west, the homeward farmers sing:
"We bring these heavy wagons full of hay to
        Make Your bed,
O Mercy, born between the animals.
Here in our harvest rest 
Your friendless head.
Kill, with Your smiles, our cruel sins, 
While lights lean down to drink 
The waters of Your look.
The lances of Your loving voice
Are sharper than the sabres of the Seraphim."

"The tree of Jesse growing in our garden, 
With branches spread against the noonward wall, 
Once sacrificed, in May, a cloudy choir of blossoms—
Flowers that died of pity for the burden 
         of the virgin summer:
But see the August apples, red as blood.
Father, forget the arbors where we hid, in Eden:
And let these cross-branch fruits transfigure us And make us gods."

The shepherd on the solemn hill,
Shot through the shoulder by a rising planet, Views the disaster of the burning west:
—The fiery doors of Jacob's tents, 
The blazing armor of the Cherubim.

For the low walls of the western world are
         burning down,
The woods go up to meet
The white battalions of the rising night.

Oh skies, fly slowly with your heavy freight, And moon, unlock the Judge's gate:
Here are the wagons of the final harvest.
Oh see the hallows, crowding to their window-sills, 
And the high houses where the angels wait.

The rivers hide, because their eyes are wet.

(Thomas Merton)