The Trance

The Trance written by William Henry Davies

From "The Hour of Magic", 1922

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<poem> The Moon is beautiful this night: She is so clear and bright, That should she smile On any sleeping face awhile, The eyes must then their slumber break, And open, wide awake; And should she pass a sleeping bird, Where no leaves touch or meet, He'll wake and, in his softest voice, Cry Sweet! Sweet! Sweet! The Moon is beautiful, but who is this That hides his face from hers; That, when she makes eyes through the leaves, Is full of trembling fears? The night breeds many a thing that's strange: The wretched owl that in distress Hoots every star that comes to help The evening in her loveliness; The half-blind bats that here and there Are floundering in the twilight air; The rat, that shows his long white teeth Of hard, unbreakable bone - That take him where his notions go, Through wood and lead, cement and stone; And cats, that have the power, About the midnight hour, To hide their bodies' size Behind two small green eyes. The night has these — but who is this That like a shadow glides Across the shadows of the trees, And his own visage hides? He hides his face - we wonder what That face would look like in the sun: Perhaps an ugly bloated thing That has more heavy chins than one; Or is it sharp and white and thin, With a long nose that tries to hook Almost as sharp a chin - And with a cold, hard, cruel look? We cannot say, but this is sure - If we this night saw it, We'd rush to strike that monster down, To drown him in our common spit.

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This morning, when the blackbird near Was frightened from his thirteenth song, There was a lady buried here - A lady, beautiful and young. And all the rings she wore in life, As one betrothed and as a wife, Were left upon her fingers still, According to her living will. But there was one who thought and thought, Until one thought possessed his head; And now he goes, though full of fear Of that clear moon, to rob the dead.