THERE was a quiet glory in the sky When thro' the gables sank the large red sun, And toppling mounts of rugged cloud went by Heavy with whiteness, and the moon had won Her way above the woods, with her small star Behind her like the cuckoo's little mother. . . . It was the hour when visions from some far Strange Eastern dreams like twilight bats take wing Out of the ruin of memories. O brother Of high song, wand'ring where the Muses fling Rich gifts as prodigal as winter rain, Like stepping-stones within a swollen river The hidden words are sounding in my brain, Too wild for taming; and I must for ever Think of the hills upon the wilderness, And leave the city sunset to your song. For there I am a stranger like the trees That sigh upon the traffic all day long. |