 | The poet, the fool and the faeries |  |
148
THE GRAY LAND
The crawfish builds its oozy chimneys here
Of pallid clay;
The shadowy wood around is sad and sere;
The sky is gray:
The mossy waters wearily creep
Dim through a land that seems asleep,
Or lost in old remembering deep
Of some forgotten day.
Of pallid clay;
The shadowy wood around is sad and sere;
The sky is gray:
The mossy waters wearily creep
Dim through a land that seems asleep,
Or lost in old remembering deep
Of some forgotten day.
The ovals of the acorns, split with rain,
That sprout and spread,
Splash mud and moss with many a sinister stain,
Faint streaks of red:
No sound upon the hush intrudes
Except the drip of wet, that broods
Like some old crime upon the woods,
And holds them grim with dread.
That sprout and spread,
Splash mud and moss with many a sinister stain,
Faint streaks of red:
No sound upon the hush intrudes
Except the drip of wet, that broods
Like some old crime upon the woods,
And holds them grim with dread.
| The poet, the fool and the faeries | |