And that night there was no question of moon,
nor any other light, but it was a night of listening,
a night given to the faint soughing and sighing
stirring at night in little pleasure gardens,

the shy sabbath of leaves and petals
and the air that eddies there
as it does not in other places,
where there is less constraint,

and as it does not during the day,
when there is more vigilance,
and then something else that is not clear,
being neither the air nor what it moves,

perhaps the far unchanging noise
the earth makes and which other noises cover,
but not for long. For they do not account for that noise
you hear when you really listen,

when all seems hushed.  And there was another noise,
that of my life become the life of this garden
as it rode the earth of deeps and wildernesses.
Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was, but that I was, forgot to be.

SAMUEL BECKETT, MOLLOY