Of sleepless nights ...

And it is dark, I hear her feet no more.
A red moon leers beyond the lily-tank.
A drunken moon ogling a sycamore,
Running long fingers down its shining flank.

A lurching moon, as nimble as a clown, Cuddling the flowers and trees which burn like glass. Red, kissing lips, I feel you on my gown— Kiss me, red lips, and then pass—pass.

Music, you are pitiless to-night. And I so old, so cold, so languorously white.

~ Excerpt from "Nuit Blanche" by Amy Lowell