(AFTER GIOVANNI PASCOLI)
At bedtime, when the sunset fire was red
One cypress turned to gold beneath its touch.
"Sleep now, my little son," the mother said;
"In God's high garden all the trees are such."
Then did the child in his bright dream behold
Branches of gold, trees, forests all of gold.
{140}
A Sower
With sanguine looks
And rolling walk
Among the rooks
He loved to stalk,
While on the land
With gusty laugh
From a full hand
He scattered chaff.
Now that within
His spirit sleeps
A harvest thin
The sickle reaps;
But the dumb fields
Desire his tread,
And no earth yields
A wheat more red.
{141}
The Mossrose