It's been a while since I've written some quality poetry, but I sat down and thought about this one for a good half hour. Enjoy, while I try to dig up some better stuff.

Quiet Night

A whisper in the wind I hear,
Will call my name, then disappear.
An apparition dressed in white,
Like Sirens spreading false delight?
Perhaps a little meadow lark,
Who seated on the treetop's bark,
Is singing last November's tune,
To dying embers, gone too soon.

No matter what this fading source,
Is humming now in faint remorse,
I strain my mind to hear it clear,
A whisper, no, a whimper like,
The sound a fallen cricket makes,
Those chirps as if a field away,
Yet still, still, that soft infusion,
Of Nature's lovely drawn delusion,
It echoes in the Winter breeze,
And sets my weathered mind at ease.