When I stepped homeward to my hill, Dusk went before with quiet tread; The bare laced branches of the trees Were as a mist about its head. Upon its leaf-brown breast the rocks Like great grey sheep lay silentwise, Between the birch trees' gleaming arms, The faint stars trembled in the skies. The white brook met me half-way up, And laughed as one that knew me well, To whose more clear than crystal voice The frost had joined a crystal spell. The skies lay like pale-watered deep, Dusk ran before me to its strand And cloudily leaned forth to touch The moon's slow wonder with her hand. This poem is in the public domain. |
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