When I stepped homeward to my hill
Dusk went before with quiet tread;
The bare laced branches of the trees
Were as a mist about its head.

Upon its leaf-brown breast, the rocks
Like great gray sheep lay silent-wise;
Between the birch trees' gleaming arms,
The faint stars trembled in the skies.

The white brook met me half-way up
And laughed as one that knew me well,
To whose more clear than crystal voice
The frost had joined a crystal spell.

The skies lay like pale-watered deep.
Dusk ran before me to its strand
And cloudily leaned forth to touch
The moon's slow wonder with her hand.