Golden vines they,
These thin lines of light,
Climbing the sky-wall
After the sun sank into sleep.
Like rills, thread-like,
Seen from a jutting rock
Where air is dizzy
And fancy infinite, free.
What fiery wine
Tingles in these vines
Weaving golden arabesques
On the pale evening sky?
Ah, the heavens this hour
Have drunk of sunset's ruby Wine
For those golden cobwebs to weave
Their magic of twilight dreams.
56
AT SUNDOWN
Two shadows fell, tremulous and frail,
From the upland over the lake-surface pale,
While the shivering reeds shook at sunset,
As the swans sailed into a sea of jet.
The rippling waters, and the breeze,
And the shadows that fall from the trees,
Mingled and melted with the twain,
A song of whitewashed away by its black refrain.