23.07.2007, 11:17
There are strange shadows fostered of the moon,
More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day. . . .
Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June,
Into the dusk of swooping bats at play,--
Or go into that late November dusk
When hills take on the noble lines of death,
And on the air the faint astringent musk
Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath.--
Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun
Knows nothing,--aye, a thousand shadows there
Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run,
Like petrels of the changing foul or fair,--
Like ghosts of twilight, of the moon, of him
Whose homeland lies past each horizon's rim. . . .
More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day. . . .
Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June,
Into the dusk of swooping bats at play,--
Or go into that late November dusk
When hills take on the noble lines of death,
And on the air the faint astringent musk
Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath.--
Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun
Knows nothing,--aye, a thousand shadows there
Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run,
Like petrels of the changing foul or fair,--
Like ghosts of twilight, of the moon, of him
Whose homeland lies past each horizon's rim. . . .