Classic Poem

The wind's in the bracken,
The wind's in the fir;
The leaves of the oak boughs
Make tremulous stir;
The hills in the twilight
They purple, they blur.

The moth's at the roses
Its longing to slake;
A last plaintive thrush-note
Drifts up from the brake;
A pale path of silver
Lies long on the lake.

The gray shadows lengthen,
The gray shadows creep;
What secrets the night has
To cherish and keep!
How softly she holds them
And folds them in sleep!