I wandered down the dying afternoon, Calling my spirit back from land and sky— It had crept out when I stood mountain-high— I might have lost it in that survey soon; Came down to the cool wood's leaf-floored vault Whence all the green and birds had fled Leaving stillness and some gold instead, And braced my soul for the birches' sweet assault. Their dazzling columns swiftly closed me round, And struck me silver wounds in ghostly number, Out-generalled me without a move or sound, Till all else faded to a birch-tree'd slumber; And when I did reluctantly escape, All things took on their dead, familiar shape. .... |