Dusk

I raise my face to evening’s veil Beneath whose folds the trees grow pale, And as its darkening shred-skeins crown The yellow fields, they turn to brown, While now a black brook bubbles down, Star-touched, across the fading trail. It is the hour when spirits steal Along the path, and I can feel The strange close-shouldering of those Who dwell among the dim hedgerows, Whispering things nobody knows, And making every fancy real. The wakened eyes of moonlit dew At times evoke your glance, and you; Your bosom forms the hill’s incline, Your tresses are the trailing vine: The dark has sometimes made you mine— A vision formed by tears, looked-through.