  At evening, when the winds are still, And wide the yellowing landscape glows, My firwoods on the lonely hill Are crowned with sun and loud with crows. Their flocks throng down the open sky From far salt flats and sedgy seas; Then dusk and dewfall quench the cry,— So calm a home is in my trees. At morning, when the young wind swings The green slim tops and branches high, Out puffs a noisy whirl of wings, Dispersing up the empty sky. In this dear refuge no roof stops The skyward pinion winnowing through. My trees shut out the world;—their tops Are open to the infinite blue. |
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