Good Night by Edward Thomas — Read

The skylarks are far behind that sang over the down;

I can hear no more those suburb nightingales;

Thrushes and blackbirds sing in the gardens of the town In vain: the noise of man, beast, and machine prevails.

But the call of children in the unfamiliar streets That echo with a familiar twilight echoing, Sweet as the voice of nightingale or lark, completes A magic of strange welcome, so that I seem a king Among man, beast, machine, bird, child, and the ghost That in the echo lives and with the echo dies.

The friendless town is friendly; homeless, I not lost;

Though I know none of these doors, and meet but strangers' eyes.

Never again, perhaps, after to-morrow, shall I see these homely streets, these church windows alight, Not a man or woman or child among them all:

But it is All Friends' Night, a traveller's good night.