The Waiting Flame
The night leans near my door,and the rain is whispering there;the curtains breathe, the lamplight wanes,and something moves upon the air—not wind, not rain, but something morethan either, and less than a name.
The room has grown strangely still;the clock is far away.The wine is warm, the window dark,the last pale edges of the dayhave fallen from the sill;and my heart, that would have slept,has waked beneath its quiet keeping.
O beautiful night,how softly thou dost enter—not as a storm, […]
https://inkandrain.home.blog/2026/09/26/the-waiting-flame/