The Hill-Top

A windy hill-top and one ragged tree Sombre against the sunset's yellow stain, And in the air the freshness of spent rain And damp dead leaves that drop continually; While far below, in soft tranquillity, Meadows with golden waves of ripened grain, A winding road, a disappearing wain, And marshy pastures sloping to the sea.

The earth grows silent as a moon of fire Moves slowly up the calm awaiting skies; Beneath a silver veil the waters gleam ; Nature breathes beauty, yet the soul's desire Turns ever to the unknown land where lies The white immortal City of its dream.