Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/90

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the large disk of the moon the clouds Ran like the smoke across a bonfire's blaze; And to the farthest limits of the sky The woods grew dark. We marched, in silence all, Upon the humid turf, in dense low furze, Or higher heath, when under stunted pines Like those that stud the moors, we dimly traced The big marks of the claws of wandering wolves We had already tracked. We stopped and held Our breath to listen. Neither in the wood, Nor in the plain far off, nor in the air, The faintest sound or sigh was audible; Only the distant village weathercock Creaked to the firmament as if it mourned; For high uplifted soared above the earth The wind, and it grazed only with its wings The solitary towers and dim-seen spires, While ancient oaks and other lofty trees, That leaned their brows against the rocks below, Seemed wrapt in slumber peaceful and profound. Amid this silence suddenly crouched down The oldest of us—hunters on the search—