Classic Poem

Now the time when winds may swoon
Before the stillness of the sun;
Early in the afternoon
The day grows dusky and is done.

Now the time when sharp hills fold
In space to lie forgotten there,
And slowly moving swords of cold
Split the heaviness of air.

If there is sound it is a sound
Made out of hush and shade; with these
It settles thickly to the ground
Like fog about the trunks of trees.