FIERCE burns our fire of driftwood; over-head Gaunt maples lift long 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. |