When the mists move down from the barren hill,
To roll where the waters are black and chill,
When the moonlight gleams on the lily-pads
And even the winds are still.

The musk-rats slip from the clammy bank,
Where the tangled reeds are long and dank,
Where the dew lies white on the iris bed,
And the rushes stand in rank.

Their black heads furrow the stagnant stream,
While the water breaks in a silver gleam,
Till it joins the reeds where the night lies hid
And the purple herons dream.

Through the mist and the moon's mysterious light
They hear the honking geese take flight,
Threshing up from the arrow-heads
As the lonely East grows white.




The Kill

Black and white the face of night,
And roar the rapids to the moon;
Dust of stars beyond the bars,
And mirthless laughter of the loon.