Stillness and twilight rest awhile
Ere the bright snows, illumined, smile,
From peaks where sullen purples brood;
And from the low Favonian bourn,
A light wind blows so dulcetly
It seems the futile silver sigh
Breathed by the lingering moon forlorn.
THE LAND OF EVIL STARS
’Neath blue days, and gold, and green,