SILENT are the woods, and the dim green boughs are <br />Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through <br />The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy <br />Calling the cows home. <br /> <br />A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but <br />Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset <br />Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on <br />The misty hill-tops. <br /> <br />Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning <br />Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are <br />A silent army of phantoms thronging <br />A land of shadows.<br /><br />John Masefield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-eastnor-knoll/
