 | Poems by Maurice Thompson |  |
94
AT NIGHT.
The moon hangs in a silver mist,
The stars are dull and thin;
Sleep, bending low, spreads loving arms
To fold the whole world in.
The air is like a spell; the hills
Waver, now seen, now lost;
The pallid river wanders by,
A vast unquiet ghost.
The stars are dull and thin;
Sleep, bending low, spreads loving arms
To fold the whole world in.
The air is like a spell; the hills
Waver, now seen, now lost;
The pallid river wanders by,
A vast unquiet ghost.
A hornëd owl on silent wings,
From out a cavernous place,
Speeds, like a bolt of darkness hurled
Athwart the shining space
Above the vale from wood to wood,
And leaves no trace behind,—
Like some dark fancy flung across
A pure and peaceful mind!
From out a cavernous place,
Speeds, like a bolt of darkness hurled
Athwart the shining space
Above the vale from wood to wood,
And leaves no trace behind,—
Like some dark fancy flung across
A pure and peaceful mind!
| Poems by Maurice Thompson | |