Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/263

 XCIV

VENING steals on in stillness o'er the heath,

Across the blue-green sky and fire-tinged clouds,

And silent birds wing homewards; misty shrouds

Rise to the hilltops from the vales beneath;

And far away against the eastern sky

Stand silhouetted pine-trees on a hill,

Sharp, rugged shapes, so very black and still,

Like memories dear of childhood storèd by.

An awful silence, like a deep-tongued bell

Reverberent about me as I stand,

Its holy mantle sheds upon the land;

I dare not move, lest I should break the spell.

Then many friendly voices spake with me,

Voices no longer framed by lips of flesh,

Voices whose noted tones rang strangely fresh,

Transfigured, instinct with new harmony:

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