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even than sunshine to the dim fields bare 

 and wide, the waning woods, the hedge- rows, 

 heart-broken over their ghosts of flowers. 

 From the going down of the sun to the 

 coming out of the stars the sky shows a 

 hard, unloving brilliance drearier, more 

 desolate, than grayest clouds. 



Though no twig stirs in the wood, a sub- 

 tile sighing sweeps through it. All the 

 Dryads are ashiver for their poor dead 

 leaves that soon ah ! so soon the cold, 

 white snow shall cover. 



At rest, here in this little clearing at the 

 wood's edge, their cry slips into your heart. 

 In the open it is still good daylight. Here, 

 where trees shut in three sides, all is ghost- 

 ly clare-obscure. Is that a ghost calling 

 through it ? Verily, it is a weird wailing 

 that smites the dusk. Out from the deep 

 forest-vista something sails, slow and noise- 

 less, upon wide wings, with eyes of green 

 fire. A dead tree towers, stark and white, 

 just in the middle of the clearing. One of 

 the big brown horned owls is flying in to 

 perch him upon its topmost point. What 

 sweep, what spread of wing he has five 

 feet, if one, from tip to tip. What a loud 

 flutter of furling as he settles slow upon his 

 unsteady perch ! 



