I was reading this post on the Guardian’s Books Blog about writing at night. Someone in the comments left a poem there:

Past one o’clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I’m in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love’s boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
To balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.

Vladimir Mayakovskiy, trans Hayward & Reavey

I’m kind of a philistine about poetry– a lot of it just makes me smirk– but this is lovely. I will file it away for Simon in West Chapel Service. Not as a speech, but as something to draw on.