Trees rise in wild dreams from the earth,
Flowers with dream faces stare,
'O Hunter, your own shadow stands
Within your forest lair!'





* * * * *





JAMES STEPHENS



THE FIFTEEN ACRES


I cling and swing
On a branch, or sing
Through the cool, clear hush of
Morning, O:
Or fling my wing
On the air, and bring
To sleepier birds a warning, O:
That the night's in flight,