Poetry Archives

When meadows are grey with the morn
  In the dusk of the woods it is night:
The oak and the birch and the pine
  War with the glimmer of light.

Dryads brown as the leaf
  Move in the gloom of the glade;
When meadows are grey with the morn
  Dim night in the wood has delayed.

The cocks that crow to the land
  Are faint and hollow and shrill:
Dryads brown as the leaf
  Whisper, and hide, and are still.