 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
VIII
Vespertime
The barberry reddens in the lanes; the vineHangs a red banner where the wood-brook rills;
The cricket in the dropping orchard shrills,
Piping the starry asters into line.
The hoarse crow calls, winging from pine to pine,
That lift their columns on a hundred hills,
And sentinel the sea whose emerald stills
Its heart's unrest, drinking the sunset's wine.
Afar one sail, touched with the flame that flies,
Glimmers and fades; and in its place a mist
Puts forth an arm embracing sea and shore:
100
The harvest-moon orbs in the amethyst,
Like some huge pearl round in a shell's blue core.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |