It is night, in my study.
The deepest solitude; I hear the steady
shudder in my breast
– for it feels all alone,
and blanched by my mind –
and I hear my blood
with even murmur
fill up the silence.
You might say the thin stream
falls in the waterclock and fills the bottom.
Here, in the night, all alone, this is my study;
the books don’t speak;
my oil lamp
bathes these pages in a light of peace,
light of a chapel.
The books don’t speak;
of the poets, the meditators, the learned,
the spirits drowse;
and it is as if around me circled
~ From “It is Night, in My Study” by Miguel de Unamuno