Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, EVENING, by VICTOR MARIE HUGO


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

EVENING, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Cold is the fog, and the grey mists rise
Last Line: Old ivon used in his pipes to blow.


COLD is the fog, and the grey mists rise,
And the herds of oxen to water go.
Black clouds the pale wan moon peeps through
And seems to light you as by surprise.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

The traveller walks dark heaths between,
Dark shade to left and dark shade to right,
Pale is the west, and the east is light;
Here twilight, and there the moon is seen.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

The witch squats down, and her lip sticks up;
To the ceiling the spider has fixed its net;
The goblin is in the marsh-fire set
Like a pistil of gold in a tulip's cup.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

On the hungry billow the lugger flies,
And shipwreck watches the mast alway;
The wind says 'to-morrow,' the sea 'to-day';
The voices you hear are despairing cries.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

The coach which from Avranches goes to Fougere,
Cracking its whip like a lightning flash.
Now is the hour when, rare and clash,
Wondrous sounds in the murky air.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

In the deep thick woods flare brilliant lights,
The old grave-yard is atop of the hill,
Whence does God find all the black to fill
The broken hearts and the sleepless nights.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

Silvery pools quiver over the sand,
The sea-hawk sits on the chalk cliff high,
The herdsman follows with awe-struck eye
The flight of devils o'er sea and land.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

From the chimney-pot rises a long grey flag;
The woodcutter plods with his load of wood;
You hear 'mid the rush of the mountain flood
The crash of the boughs, which the torrents drag.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.

The starved wolf dreams he the sheepfold seeks,
The rivers speed, and the dark clouds flit,
And behind the pane where the lamp is lit
Dear little children have rosy cheeks.

When 'twas, or where, I no longer know,
Old Ivon used in his pipes to blow.





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