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Stone Trees Post by :kaybee Category :Poems Author :John Freeman Date :September 2011 Read :1697

Click below to download : Stone Trees (Format : PDF)

Stone Trees

Last night a sword-light in the sky
Flashed a swift terror on the dark.
In that sharp light the fields did lie
Naked and stone-like; each tree stood
Like a tranced woman, bound and stark.
Far off the wood
With darkness ridged the riven dark.

And cows astonished stared with fear,
And sheep crept to the knees of cows,
And conies to their burrows slid,
And rooks were still in rigid boughs,
And all things else were still or hid.
From all the wood
Came but the owl's hoot, ghostly, clear.

In that cold trance the earth was held
It seemed an age, or time was nought.
Sure never from that stone-like field
Sprang golden corn, nor from those chill
Gray granite trees was music wrought.
In all the wood
Even the tall poplar hung stone still.

It seemed an age, or time was none ...
Slowly the earth heaved out of sleep
And shivered, and the trees of stone
Bent and sighed in the gusty wind,
And rain swept as birds flocking sweep.
Far off the wood
Rolled the slow thunders on the wind.

From all the wood came no brave bird,
No song broke through the close-fall'n night,
Nor any sound from cowering herd:
Only a dog's long lonely howl
When from the window poured pale light.
And from the wood
The hoot came ghostly of the owl.

(The end)
John Freeman's poem: Stone Trees

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It Was The Lovely Moon It Was The Lovely Moon

It Was The Lovely Moon
It was the lovely moon--she liftedSlowly her white brow amongBronze cloud-waves that ebbed and driftedFaintly, faintlier afar.Calm she looked, yet pale with wonder,Sweet in unwonted thoughtfulness,Watching the earth that dwindled underFaintly, faintlier afar.It was the lovely moon that lovelikeHovered over the wandering, tiredEarth, her bosom gray and dovelike,Hovering beautiful as a dove....The lovely moon:--her soft light fallingLightly on roof and poplar and pine--Tree to tree whispering and calling,Wonderful in the silvery shineOf the round, lovely, thoughtful moon.(The end)John Freeman's poem: It Was The Lovely Moon

The Native Country The Native Country

The Native Country
Where is that country? The unresting mindLike a lapwing nears and leaves it and returns.I know those unknown hill-springs where they rise,I know the answer of the elms to the windWhen the wind on their heaving bosom liesAnd sleeps. I know the grouping pines that crownThe long green hill and fling their darkness down,A never-dying shadow; and well I knowHow in the late months the whole wide woodland burnsUnsmoking, and the earth hangs still as still.I know the town, the hamlets and the loneShelterless cottage where the wind's least toneIs magnified, and his far-flung thundering shoutBrings near the incredible end of