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 GYPSY by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS ONE'S-SELF I SING by WALT WHITMAN WATCHING RUNNING WATER by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH by WILLIAM BRADFORD A BOTTLE AND A FRIEND by ROBERT BURNS TO M. S. G. (2) by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SONG: MURDERING BEAUTY by THOMAS CAREW BLANK MISGIVINGS OF A CREATURE MOVING ABOUT IN WORLDS NOT REALIZED: 3 by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH |