Many Nights

When the fields grow ever darkling,

I feel, brighter grow mine eyes;

already a star tries out sparkling,

and faster are the crickets’ cries.

Every sound’s more picturesque,

the accustomed ever stranger,

behind the wood the sky grows paler,

clearer treetops in the bosk.

And you notice not while walking,

brighter hundredfold the light

wrests itself from all this darkling.

All at once you feel its might.

Richard Dehmel