 | From the Hills of Dream |  |
128
Lances of Gold.
The afternoon has drowsed through the sun-flood.The afternoon has drowsed through the sun-flood. The green leaves have grown golden, saturated with light. And now, at the sudden whirling of the lances of gold, a cloud of wild-doves arises from the pines, wheels against the sunblaze, and flashes out of sight, flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink. I know the green hidden nests of the wild doves, when ye come again, O whirling lances of gold!
| From the Hills of Dream | |