THE HERON

I EVENING A vein of flame, the long creek crawls Beneath dark brows of woodland walls, Red where the sunset's crimson falls. One wiry leg drawn to his breast, Neck-shrunk, at solitary rest, The heron stands among the bars. II NIGHT The whimpering creek breaks on the stone, Where for a while the new moon shone With one white star and one alone. Lank haunter of lone marshy lands The melancholy heron stands, Then, clamoring, dives into the stars.