THE TREES
In the level sun-rays, the hill slopes flare with color. The water's mirror reflects the glory of the west: at first sheer yellow like pale gold; then tinted with crimson; and soon, above the twilight, steeped in glowing red.
Slowly the purple shadows deepen among the hills. The birds twitter softly in the dusk. Shrill voices of the night call to each other across the solitudes.
The slender trees rise black against the sky. High among their branches gleams the adolescent moon, its flowing light turning the fields to silver and the forests to ebony. And the soft wind bears from the distant city echoes of the songs of festival.
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