Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/84

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.

THE TIDES.

The moon is at her fall, and, riding high,
 Floods the calm fields with light.
The airs that hover in the summer sky
 Are all asleep to-night.

There comes no voice from the great woodlands round
 That murmured all the day;
Beneath the shadow of their boughs, the ground
 Is not more still than they.

This article is issued from Wikisource. The text is available under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 unless otherwise noted. Additional terms may apply for the media files.