Hearth

The night is dark and cold
The moon, invisible
And everything feels old,
Creaky, wrinkled, full
Of half-forgotten things
Throw half away, and dropped.
The nightengale who sings
Has just abruptly stopped
And all is still. And dead.
But yet my heart is light
For in my soul I've fed
On sun, and so despite
The gloom, I can renew
By contemplating you.