Chapter XXVI

Beyond the violet-colored hill
The golden, deepening daffodil
Of dusk bloomed on heav’n’s window-sill:
And, drifting west, the crescent moon
Gleamed like a sword of Scanderoon
A khedive dropped on floors of gold;
Near which,--one loosened gem that rolled
Out of the jewelled scimitar,--
Glittered and shone the evening-star.

Behind the trees, where, darkly deep
As indigo, the shadows sleep,--
As if the Titan world would heap
A throne with purple for its god,
Whose pomp comes with vermilion shod--
The west, ’thwart which the wild-ducks fly,
Burns, richer than the orient dye
Phœnician vessels brought from Tyre,
Deep, murex-stained, with carmine fire.

The light dies down; the skies grow gray:
The sear, dark forests sound and sway:
The ashen rain-clouds roll this way.
The green grig in the withered weeds
Sings, and the wild snipe seeks the reeds.
With hurling winds,--that seem to wail
Like Demon Huntsmen,--dark with hail
And rain, which blot the cabin’s light,
Comes on the wild autumnal night.