Night in Camp

Fierce burns our fire of driftwood; overhead Gaunt maples lift arms against the night; The stars are sobbing,—sorrow-shaken, white, And high they hang, or show sad eyes grown red With weeping for their queen,—the moon, just dead. Black shadows backward reel when tall and bright The broad flames stand and fling a golden light On mats of soft green moss around us spread. A sudden breeze comes in from off the sea, The vast, old forest draws a troubled breath, A leaf awakens; up the shore of sand The slow tide, silver-lipped, creeps noiselessly; The campfire dies; then silence deep as death; The darkness pushing down upon the land.