Old Martinmas Eve

The moon, one tree, one star, Still meadows far, Enwreathed and scarfed by phantom lines of white. November’s night Of all her nights, I thought, and turned to see Again that moon and star-supporting tree. If some most quiet tune had spoken then; Some silver thread of sound; a core within That sea-deep silentness, I had not known Ever such joy in peace, but sound was none-- Nor should be till birds roused to find the dawn.