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GONE the wild day: A wilder night Coming makes way For brief twilight.

Where the firm soaked road Mounts and is lost In the high beech-wood It shines almost.

The beeches keep A stormy rest, Breathing deep Of wind from the west.

The wood is black, With a misty steam. Above, the cloud pack Breaks for one gleam.

But the woodman's cot By the ivied trees Awakens not To light or breeze.

It smokes aloft Unwavering: It hunches soft Under storm's wing.

It has no care For gleam or gloom: It stays there While I shall roam,

Die, and forget The hill of trees, The gleam, the wet, This roaring peace.