Just ere the darkness is withdrawn, In seasons of cold or heat, Close to the boundary line of Dawn These mystical brothers meet. They clasp their weird and shadowy hands, As they listen each to each, But never a mortal understands Their strange immortal speech.
Moonlight Song OF THE MOCKING-BIRD EACH golden note of music greets The listening leaves, divinely stirred, As if the vanished soul of Keats Had found its new birth in a bird. NIGHT MISTS SOMETIMES, when Nature falls asleep, Around her woods and streams The mists of night serenely creep— For...
Out of the mighty Yule log came The crooning of the lithe wood-flame,— A single bar of music fraught With cheerful yet half pensive thought,— A thought elusive: out of reach, Yet trembling on the verge of speech.
Just ere the darkness is withdrawn, In seasons of cold or heat, Close to the boundary line of Dawn These mystical brothers meet. They clasp their weird and shadowy hands, As they listen each to each, But never a mortal understands Their strange immortal speech.
A throat of thunder, a tameless heart, And a passion malign and free, He is no sheik of the desert sand. But an Arab of the sea! He sprang from the womb of some wild cloud, And was born to smite and slay: To soar like a million hawks set free, And swoop on his ocean prey! He has scourged...
Moonlight song OF THE MOCKING-BIRD EACH golden note of music greets The listening leaves, divinely stirred, As if the vanished soul of Keats Had found its new birth in a bird. NIGHT MISTS SOMETIMES, when Nature falls asleep, Around her woods and streams The mists of night serenely creep— For...
