Dirge
A night of strange longing
Of dark unrest
Has fallen over the sands.
Like ghosts that are thronging,
Pale shapes from the waters
Arise and I see their hands.
I hear a faint weeping;
Autumn is dead;
Withered the leaves on the ground.
A gray mist is creeping
Out of the north
With the stealth of an Indian’s hound.
~~
Helen Dudley
from Poetry, December 1917
[Poem is in the public domain in Canada and the United States]
Helen Dudley biography
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