Now that the clouds have gone, the half moon is free to make night a ghost of day, pale light and deep shadow measuring the passage of quiet hours, the deserted streets suggestive of long Sundays when no passersby disturb the tranquil dreamer and every object is like a statue carved or cast, inanimate yet fraught with barely concealed force. Now, vision dimmed and perception heightened by this cool, reflected light, I think that stones might watch me, and trees talk among themselves in tones beyond my hearing, and the lawn be waiting for my footsteps, wishing that I would fall upon it and warm the ecstatic blades with my animal heat. Being all that moves, I feel the craving of the whole static world for my attention, each limber curve of branch and shell of flower seems poised just so, summoning my eye, inviting my touch. It is a strange glamour, which has emerged from my thoughts, yet has been elicited by these dim and mere things. What the trees are saying must be a spell, and they earth's tongues, plotting this nocturnal seduction. The ground reaches up and holds my feet each step I take. I will never leave its endless circles.