Shadows

Oak tree, Elm tree, And apple bough. . . . Their shadows fall On the cool green grass.

Shadows of willow trees lie in the shimmering pool, And the pine trees' flicker On crystal snow.

(Even the baby, chubby and sweet, Poised on her tiny, tottering feet, Casts now her shadow — an instant's gloom, Over a purple hyacinth bloom.)

Last winter, set in a fire-lit room, Were two sprays of long-dried goldenrod. . . . Feathery, frosty plumes. They were certainly ghostly enough in themselves, But the magical firelight leaped and shone Till their dainty, elusive shadows fell, Etched on the oak-paneled wall. Each was an exquisite mystical ghost Of Beauty — A miracle truth.

Then the firelight died and they went out Into the Silence, where shadows dwell.