 | Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill |  |
113
WILLOW CREEK.
The tent is pitched for sleeping in where cottonwoods are green,
And Willow Creek is running, rippling, singing all the way;
The misty hills are dim and far, the last the sun has seen,
And birds and leaves and silver fish are sleeping after play.
The day is slowly dying in a twilight grey,
And evening birds sing sweet for thanks that this one day has been.
And Willow Creek is running, rippling, singing all the way;
The misty hills are dim and far, the last the sun has seen,
And birds and leaves and silver fish are sleeping after play.
The day is slowly dying in a twilight grey,
And evening birds sing sweet for thanks that this one day has been.
114
The stars are out in clusters, but the moon was never seen,
And Willow Creek is running, rippling, singing all the night;
With a breath of balm-of-Gilead comes the breeze at morning keen,
The cloudy east is broken by a single rift of light
The night is slowly dying in a day-dawn grey,
And morning birds sing sweet for thanks that this one night has been.
And Willow Creek is running, rippling, singing all the night;
With a breath of balm-of-Gilead comes the breeze at morning keen,
The cloudy east is broken by a single rift of light
The night is slowly dying in a day-dawn grey,
And morning birds sing sweet for thanks that this one night has been.
| Collected Poems of Moira O'Neill | |