THE SEASON OF MISTS 



The moors are still. The sun 'with rust 

 Has stained the log-land asphodel ; 

 From valley deep to upland fell 



The night is creeping. 



Red rushes fade. The hills rise gray 

 Above the violet mist. Dark streams, 

 ' Mid Autumn* s dying breath, in dreams 

 Are singing, sleeping. 



A. T. J., 

 Eventide. 



