The Pebbly Brook Is Cold To-Night, Its Water Soft As Air, A Clear, Cold, Crystal-Bodied Wind Shadowless And Bare, Leaping And Running In This World Where Dark-Horned Cattle Stare: Where Dark-Horned Cattle Stare, Hoof-Firm On The Dark Pavements Of The Sky, And Trees Are Mummies Swathed In Sleep And Small Dark Hills Crowd Wearily; Soft Multitudes Of Snow-Grey Clouds Without A Sound March By. Down At The Bottom Of The Road I Smell The Woody Damp Of That Cold Spirit In The Grass, And Leave My Hill-Top Camp - Its Long Gun Pointing In The Sky - And Take The Moon For Lamp. I Stop Beside The Bright Cold Glint Of That Thin Spirit In The Grass, So Gay It Is, So Innocent! I Watch Its Sparkling Footsteps Pass Lightly From Smooth Round Stone To Stone, Hid In The Dew-Hung Grass. My Lamp Shines In The Globes Of Dew, And Leaps Into That Crystal Wind Running Along The Shaken Grass To Each Dark Hole That It Can Find - The Crystal Wind, The Moon My Lamp, Have Vanished In A Wood That's Blind. High Lies My Small, My Shadowy Camp, Crowded About By Small Dark Hills; With Sudden Small White Flowers The Sky Above The Woods' Dark Greenness Fills; And Hosts Of Dark-Browed, Muttering Trees In Trance The White Moon Stills. I Move Among Their Tall Grey Forms, A Thin Moon-Glimmering, Wandering Ghost, Who Takes His Lantern Through The World In Search Of Life That He Has Lost, While Watching By That Long Lean Gun Up On His Small Hill Post.