From the heavy waters; not a drop of rain
Distils from the pervading mist.
Sluggishly out of the west
A grey canal-boat glides, half-seen, unheard;
The sweating horses on the towpath sway
Backward and forward in a rhythmic strain;
It passes by, a dream within a dream,
Down the dark corridor of leaning boughs,
Down the long waterways of endless fall.
A shiver stirs the woods; a fitful gleam
Of sun gilds the sky's overhanging brows;
Then shadowy silence, and the yellow stream
Of dead leaves dropping to the green canal.

Moret-sur-Loing, 1918


XI

They who have gone down the hill are far away;
From the still valleys I can hear them call;
Their distant laughter faintly floats
Through the unmoving air and back to me.
I am alone with the declining day
And the declining forest where the notes
Of all the happy minstrelsy,
Birds and leaf-music and the rest,
Sink separately in the hush of fall.
The sun and clouds conflicting in the west
Swirl into smoky light together and fade