Poetry Archives

The sun looks over a little hill
  And floods the valley with gold—
        A torrent of gold;
And the hither field is green and still;
  Beyond it a cloud outrolled,
  Is glowing molten and bright;
And soon the hill, and the valley and all,
        With a quiet fall,
  Shall be gathered into the night.
  And yet a moment more,
        Out of the silent wood,
  As if from the closing door
Of another world and another lovelier mood,
  Hear’st thou the hermit pour—
        So sweet! so magical!—
His golden music, ghostly beautiful.