POET RT.
NOUS NIRONS PLUS AU BOIS.
BETTER stay at home
Now the evening's come.
A little breeze blows chill Westward, across the hill .
The pale young moon is shy And hidden. Dear one, why Not be satisfied.
For we are tired? Bide Here, and shut the door; I'll make a little more Fire.
The beech boughs hang so low, The dry leaves whisper so, The great trees lean and press So close in the darkness.
No nightingale will sing; Only the black bat's wing Whirs; and the fairies' bird, The night owl, can be heard.
And in the dim starlight Your face is changed and white ...
Come closer to the bright Fire.
Perhaps when we had stood One moment in the wood, They'd call, and you would go And where I'd never know!
Or, in a breath, alas!
A century might pass Like wind blown through the grass ...
And creeping home again, No ashes would remain Of our fire. J.
Previous page
