Tiptoe Night
by John Drinkwater
Tiptoe Night comes down the lane,
All alone, without a word,
Taking for his own again
Every little flower and bird.
Not a footfall, not a sigh,
Not a ripple of the air,
Not a sound to reckon by,
Yet I know that he is there.
And I count them as I wait,
Step by tiptoe step until-
Hush! he's at the garden-gate,
Hush! he's at the window-sill.
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