The candle light is soft and dim, with a lowly golden tick.

It’s slivers dance ‘gainst the red-brown olden brick;

As children sleep and lovers meet,

And the fox trots with fervent feet;

A chilly prick in the air, after the slaying of the heat-

Atop the roof, in cold of dark, curled the cat in sleep.

‘Tween shrouds of cloud, in silver shoon:

Rides and peeks a silver moon;

To shine upon the hanging blinds, and the forests deep,

As rats and night mice hover atop the bins in grayish heaps.

The cricket beeps with zest and zeal,

As owls glide for a nightly meal;

The icy glares of stars above pierce through the darkness thick,

And all the blinds tap firmly close, and snaps the golden tick.