NOW ragged clouds in the west are heaping, All the hedges fall a-weeping, And in a thin green distance flowers The moon, the anemone of lonely hours. The moon sheds diamonds on a myriad meadows And her rays wander among wood shadows; Ere the last of sunset's flown She has made a new world of her own. Old farm-houses with their white faces Fly, and their ghosts have taken their places; Even the signposts like grim liars Point to trapping brakes and briars. Tired birds roosting are not yet sleeping, But stir and mutter at the wild eyes peeping; And sheep will not let silence lie, But blare about the hilltop sky As though long-plotting dogs had broken From kennel-chains, by the ringleader spoken, To harry the ewes in the light of the moon -- The blood on their jaws will hang 'em anon. But no, for miles the sheepfolds moan, And dogs bay from their farms alone; Can she who shines so calm be fear? What poison pours she in slumber's ear? |