Maurice Thompson

At Night

 Next Poem          

The moon hangs in a silver mist,
The stars are dull and thin;
Sleep, bending low, spreads loving arms
To fold the whole world in.
The air is like a spell; the hills
Waver, now seen, now lost;
The pallid river wanders by,
A vast unquiet ghost.

A hornëd owl on silent wings,
From out a cavernous place,
Speeds, like a bolt of darkness hurled
Athwart the shining space
Above the vale from wood to wood,
And leaves no trace behind,--
Like some dark fancy flung across
A pure and peaceful mind!

Next Poem 

 Back to
Maurice Thompson