Gone the Red Harvester, with heaped-up wain
Darkening against the blood-bright sky; yet lingers
The lone, gaunt Gleaner on the twilight plain,
Blind-gathering with the clutch of hungry fingers.
THE RIDDLE OF WRECK
Dark hemlocks, seventy and seven,
High on the hill-slope sigh in dream,
With plumy heads in heaven;
They silver the sunbeam.
One broken body of a tree,