Nuvenas

Ah, 'tis well past eleven o' the clock, And the hands do not move on this fob-watch. So now the shadows swirl up and skitter, Like moths, like windblown leaves, playing hop-scotch. Beneath the pall of smoth'ry fog I go, Where my lost dreams wander upon the hill. Some spin in half-remembered pirouettes, I find some lodged in oaken bough, dark, still.