Interval
GONE the wild day:A wilder nightComing makes wayFor brief twilight.
Where the firm soaked roadMounts and is lostIn the high beech-woodIt shines almost.
The beeches keepA stormy rest,Breathing deepOf wind from the west.
The wood is black,With a misty steam.Above, the cloud packBreaks for one gleam.
But the woodman's cotBy the ivied treesAwakens notTo light or breeze.
It smokes aloftUnwavering:It hunches softUnder storm's wing.
It has no careFor gleam or gloom:It stays thereWhile I shall roam,
Die, and forgetThe hill of trees,The gleam, the wet,This roaring peace.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.