The Hills

Through the twilight faint winds will ever waken
Ghostly trees adream in the frosty silence,
And the last red streaks of the winter sunset
Fade into ashes.

White above the lake and the leafless willows,
Cold and silver starglow, the full moon risen;
White air will grow with a fleece of snowflakes
Silenty falling.

This pale dream of lonely and haunted beauty
Evermore will come in the dusk of winter
From the hills of youth, as a ghost unbidden
Out of the twilight.