Night Fell by Florence Ripley MastinNight fell one year ago, like this.He had been writing steadily.Among these dusky walls of books,How bright he looked, intense as flame!Suddenly he paused,The firelight in his hair,And said, “The time has come to go.”I took his hand;We watched the logs burn out;The apple boughs fingered the window;Down the cool, spring nightA slim, white moon leaned to the hill.To-night the trees are budded white,And the same pale moon slips through the dusk.O little buds, tap-tapping on the pane,O white moon,I wonder if he sleeps in woodsWhere there are leaves?Or if he lies in some black trench,His hands, his kind hands, kindling flame that kills?Or if, or if...He is here now, to bid me last good-night?-----Prosodia is a daily podcast dedicated to historical notes and poems, hosted by Karim El Azhari. Welcome!All show notes are heavily recycled from old The Writer’s Almanac archives. May that podcast rest in peace (it was Karim’s favorite).All poems are public domain or submitted by the author for use on the show.Intro and outro music by Chillhop Records. They are amazing!