The world is resting without sound or motion,
Behind the apple tree the sun goes down
Painting with fire the spires and the windows
In the elm-shaded town.

Beyond the calm Connecticut the hills lie
Silvered with haze as fruits still fresh with bloom,
The swallows weave in flight across the zenith
On an aerial loom.

Into the garden peace comes back with twilight,
Peace that since noon had left the purple phlox,
The heavy-headed asters, the late roses
And swaying hollyhocks.

For at high-noon I heard from this same garden
The far-off murmur as when many come;
Up from the village surged the blind and beating
Red music of a drum;

And the hysterical sharp fife that shattered
The brittle autumn air,
While they came, the young men marching
Past the village square. . . .

Across the calm Connecticut the hills change
To violet, the veils of dusk are deep —
Earth takes her children’s many sorrows calmly
And stills herself to sleep.

Look up from grey, your stony walls,
Break with the sun, seasides beyond,
Even dreams can come true my heart,
Take one step into the song of the lark.

If I should stay, Cuillin Hills will weep,
End up bleating with black faced sheep,
Stoic on cairns, froze giant of Callanish,
Or gutted in harbour like some cuttlefish.

My mind is mournful, keens with winds,
O what choral fantasias we both'll sing,
Hymns north, west, south, easter terrain,
Thoughts' forsake, points the wind vane.

A fine stout dinghy awaits pure ravel,
My sorrows a mend upon that voyage,
Into the west, moon hid from maid sun,
Aye, ginger haired wrangler tae horizons.