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'Moonrise o And who has seen the moon, who has not seen Her rise from out the chamber of the deep Flushed and grand and naked, as from the chamber Of finished bridegroom, seen her rise and throw Confession of delight upon the wave, Littering the waves with her own superscription Of bliss, till all her lambent beauty shakes towards us Spread out and known at last: and we are sure That beauty is a thing beyond the grave, That perfect, bright experience never falls To nothingness, and time will dim the moon Sooner than our full consummation here In this odd life will tarnish or pass away. 'PEOPLE * The great gold apples of night Hang from the street's long bough, Dripping their light On the faces that drift below, On the faces that drift and go Down the night-time, out of sight In the wind's sad sough.
The ripeness of these apples of night
Distilling over me
Makes sickening the white
The house is haunted by old trees.
So close they stand, and still,
No yellow sunlight seeps through their shingled leaves
And drips down on the sill.
Beech with the mist on his flanks,
Pine whose old voice is a muffled bell,
Gaunt, wan-bodied poplar
That has a bitter smell,
Tapping elm and oak-tree—
They stoop and peer within
By the side of the twisted apple-tree,
His grey hands under his chin.
They do nothing but peer and haunt through the windows
That are dead as the eyes of the drowned;
And listen until their silence
Makes a strangeness all around.
Then suddenly they quiver and shake at the wind
Their arms that are furrowed as river sands,
And whisper “Did you see?” to one another
And beckon to one another with their hands;
And they laugh a hungry laughter
There is no one understands.
By night they creep close to the windows,
As quiet as grey lichens creep,
And pick at the catches with their fingers—
How they can get in, and peep
To see their own shadows thronging
The quiet-house of sleep.
Yes, they look in at their own shadows
Stealing up by the stair
To the closed doors of the chambers
And listening there.
They watch how their shadows with pulseless fingers
Noiselessly push and strain,
And beat their breasts on the dark panels
To open them, in vain;
And how the thin moonlight trickles round them
Creeping down by the banisters again. o
Eloise Robinson \
In all the lonely places and the hills
By dusk comes down faint trumpeting; it fills
The hollows and the river-banks with sound,
And music is like mist along the ground:
In all the forest paths and secret places,
The lilies seem like small forgotten faces;
And clothed in dimming gold, and by our side,
With muted hoofs, the dead contented ride.
Maxwell Struthers Burt)
There was a rose that faded where it grew; o
There was a bird that could not brook the wind;
There was a sunset whose wild glory thinned
To nothing-wonder and the night's ash hue.
Pale blossoms, when they quicken, count life sped;
And there were purple asters in the fall
Of the cold year that withered by the wall
And died, with all spring's dreams about them dead.
A rose, a bird, a sunset, and a weed,
A blossom whose death sentence is its sky—
Yea, and dead waves that break on sobbing seas.
Man is a faint, frail brother, with no creed
These know not of. Behold, all things must die,
And all the vaunting ages are as these.
I want to lie alone beside the sedges,
Where the dim-faced waters are quietly singing.
There is peace there, and a deep old happiness
That the drake knows when he is tired of winging
The far heights, and avoiding
The craft of the grey hunter.
I have long avoided the grey hunter Death,
And now I am weary and in much need of learning