Dusk
Iraise my face to evening’s veilBeneath whose folds the trees grow pale,And as its darkening shred-skeins crownThe yellow fields, they turn to brown,While now a black brook bubbles down,Star-touched, across the fading trail.It is the hour when spirits stealAlong the path, and I can feelThe strange close-shouldering of thoseWho dwell among the dim hedgerows,Whispering things nobody knows,And making every fancy real.The wakened eyes of moonlit dewAt times evoke your glance, and you;Your bosom forms the hill’s incline,Your tresses are the trailing vine:The dark has sometimes made you mine—A vision formed by tears, looked-through.
Iraise my face to evening’s veilBeneath whose folds the trees grow pale,And as its darkening shred-skeins crownThe yellow fields, they turn to brown,While now a black brook bubbles down,Star-touched, across the fading trail.It is the hour when spirits stealAlong the path, and I can feelThe strange close-shouldering of thoseWho dwell among the dim hedgerows,Whispering things nobody knows,And making every fancy real.The wakened eyes of moonlit dewAt times evoke your glance, and you;Your bosom forms the hill’s incline,Your tresses are the trailing vine:The dark has sometimes made you mine—A vision formed by tears, looked-through.
Iraise my face to evening’s veilBeneath whose folds the trees grow pale,And as its darkening shred-skeins crownThe yellow fields, they turn to brown,While now a black brook bubbles down,Star-touched, across the fading trail.
Iraise my face to evening’s veil
Beneath whose folds the trees grow pale,
And as its darkening shred-skeins crown
The yellow fields, they turn to brown,
While now a black brook bubbles down,
Star-touched, across the fading trail.
It is the hour when spirits stealAlong the path, and I can feelThe strange close-shouldering of thoseWho dwell among the dim hedgerows,Whispering things nobody knows,And making every fancy real.
It is the hour when spirits steal
Along the path, and I can feel
The strange close-shouldering of those
Who dwell among the dim hedgerows,
Whispering things nobody knows,
And making every fancy real.
The wakened eyes of moonlit dewAt times evoke your glance, and you;Your bosom forms the hill’s incline,Your tresses are the trailing vine:The dark has sometimes made you mine—A vision formed by tears, looked-through.
The wakened eyes of moonlit dew
At times evoke your glance, and you;
Your bosom forms the hill’s incline,
Your tresses are the trailing vine:
The dark has sometimes made you mine—
A vision formed by tears, looked-through.
DAVID GILLIS CARTER.