  Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, On the lowlands where sedges chaff and nod; The withered fringes of the golden-rod Hang frayed and formless at the quarry’s rim. Filled with the wine of sunset to the brim, These limestone pits are cups for the night god, Set for his lips when he strays hither, shod With shadows, all the stars following him. And as gloom grows and deepens like a psalm, This broken field which summer has passed by Has caught the ultimate lethean calm, The fabulous quiet of far Thessaly, And though the land has lost the bloom and balm, Nature is all content in liberty. |
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