Thomas Hampson

At the end of the street
a porch light is burning,
showing the way.

How simple, how perfect it seems:
How simple. how perfect it seems:
the darkness the white house like a passage
through summer and into a snowfield.

Night after night,
the lamp comes on,
comes on at dusk,
the end of the street
stands open and white,
an old woman sits there
tending the lonely gate.

How simple, how perfect it seems.

High in the trees,
cicadas weave
a wickerwork of longing, longing.

In the shadows between two houses,
a man peers into a room through the hum of a window fan,
the fragrance of his hair oil
like distant music, far too faint
like distant music, far too faint to awaken,
to awaken the naked girl
on the clean linen of moonlight.

High in the trees cicadas weave
a wickerworker of longing, longing, longing.

Somewhere in the night,
somewhere in the night
a dog is barking.

Somewhere in the night
a dog is barking,
starlight like beads of dew
a long his tight chain.

No one ist there
beyond the dark garden,
nothing to bark at,
nothing to bark at
except the thoughts
of some old man
sending his memories
out for a midnight walk,
a rich cape woven of many loves swept recklessly
about his shoulders.

Somewhere in the night,
Somewhere in the night,
Somewhere in the night
a dog is barking.

No one is there,
no one os there
except the thoughts and memories of many loves,
many loves, many loves, of many loves, many-

Above us, stars.
Beneath us, constellations.
Five billion miles away,
a galaxy dies like a snowflake falling on water.

Below us, some farmer snaps on his yardlight,
drawing his sheds and barn
back into the little system of his care.

All night, like shimmeringnovas,
tug with bright streets
at lonely lights like his.