Moonrise

The first snows of the year lie white
Upon the branches bending low;
A surging wind the flakes doth blow
Before the coming feet of Night —
Half dusk, half day, betwixt the pines
Green-yellow the full moon reclines

Green-yellow, and now wholly green,
While faint the windy stars are seen.
Rate this poem: 

Become a Patron!

Reviews

No reviews yet.