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Gerald M. Cooper
II
A dark grey sky that merges in the west
Into pale primrose, where the fading day
Still lingers like an echo half-expressed
Of some forgotten glory. By the way,
Outlined in black against the sky, there stands
A wayside crucifix among the corn;
Waiting with tired eyes and outstretched hands,
In patient expectation of the morn.
The gentle whisper of the poplar trees
Is hardly loud enough to break the spell
Of mystic silence. From the church tower's height
Comes, wafted onward by the dying breeze,
The solemn tolling of a single bell;
Then silence and the mystery of night.
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