The last white star is hung against the sky And the hills lie Crouched on the silent earth, and stark trees stand Ghost gibbets on the land. Frost is like silver flame, or sullen rime In the moon's time. Spread on a hill's dark breast, a brooding farm Sleeps still and warm. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON HIS RETURN TO LONDON by ROBERT HERRICK THE LAST CHANTEY by RUDYARD KIPLING SONNET: 87 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE DICK, A MAGGOT by JONATHAN SWIFT ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 17. ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY by MARK AKENSIDE |