Classic Poem

Stillness falls and a glare,
The woods in darkness lie.
The fields are stretched and stare
Under the empty sky.
Vacant the ways of the air,
Along which no birds fly.
Only the high sun's flare
Spills on the empty sky.

I lift my aching eyes
From the dry wilderness:
Across me a peewit flies
With gestures meaningless. . . .
Mine are his piping cries
At this world's emptiness!