The spirits of the twilight go sighing on these slopes After the fire's black tread; And something like a cry falls where the twisted smoke scent gropes Above the forest dead. The spirits of the twilight go weeping on these hills That wore at dawn the plume Of firs aglow and trembling to tap of wings and pearly bills, Dark now beyond relume. And down where men are walking, so vague and unperplexed, Some one, half heard, will say "Old Balsam Cone is done for; I wonder which is next;" And go the trodden way. But where hot scars are barren, and long curled moss is black Spirits of twilight call The dry-tongued hounds of hunger, and drouth that fevers track To a forest funeral. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILL WIFE: THE SMILE by ROBERT FROST SONNET: TO SLEEP by JOHN KEATS WITH A COPY OF CALVERLEY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 8. ON LEAVING HOLLAND by MARK AKENSIDE TO ONE WHO ASKS by MARY REYNOLDS ALDIS ON THE ENGINE AGAIN by ALEXANDER ANDERSON OFF MESOLONGI by ALFRED AUSTIN |