Stanislav Zhukovsky

Midnight
The stars are soft as flowers, and as near; 
The hills are webs of shadow, slowly spun; 
No separate leaf or single blade is here- 
All blend to one.
No moonbeam cuts the air; a sapphire light 
Rolls lazily. and slips again to rest. 
There is no edged thing in all this night, 
Save in my breast.
Dorothy Parker

Summer Night