The last white star is hung against the sky And the hills lie Crouched on the silent earth, and stark trees stand Ghost gibbets on the land. Frost is like silver flame, or sullen rime In the moon's time. Spread on a hill's dark breast, a brooding farm Sleeps still and warm. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 7 by CONRAD AIKEN THE WHITE PEACOCK by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET HIGH PLAINS RAG by JAMES GALVIN PRIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO MAY HOWARD JACKSON - SCULPTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON STREET CRIES: 6. TO RICHARD WAGNER by SIDNEY LANIER ANCHORED TO THE INFINITE by EDWIN MARKHAM |