The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
High towards the star-lit sky
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun.
Hymn to the North Star.
Beneath the forest’s skirt I rest,
Whose branching pines rise dark and high,
And hear the breezes of the West
Among the thread-like foliage sigh.
The West Wind.
Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence