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A Dead Craftsman
The soft glen, heavy with evening,
Is still in unbroken dew—
No paleness is brushed on the grasses,
No crush from his shoe
Is trailed through the airy passes—
Where only a moon moves now
Crushing the dusk through wet grasses,
And dusk in his brow!
That moon stood barely a stripling
Of half a twilight old,
When he found me in dreamy houses
Near the wood’s blue threshold;
But while he smiled in that twilight
(His dark head slanting bird-wise
To stringed musics heard through my fingers)
Sleep grew on his eyes.