TWILIT R IVERS

Little rivers at twilight,
Little wintry rivers,
Running between brown trees
With mistletoed branches;
Catching dark shivery shadows
Of boughs into your bosoms,
And a pale silvery star
Between burnt clouds of gold. ...

Little lowly rivers,
How sad your spirit shimmers!
All the land's rainy loneliness
Is running in your flow;
While farm-lights faintly quiver
And brown hills freeze about you
And the music of the sheep-bells
Falls silent in the fold.