SONNET

by: Arthur Davison Ficke (1883-1945)

      HERE are strange shadows fostered of the moon,
      More numerous than the clear-cut shade of day . . .
      Go forth, when all the leaves whisper of June,
      Into the dusk of swooping bats at play;
      Or go into that late November dusk
      When hills take on the noble lines of death,
      An on the air the faint, astringent musk
      Of rotting leaves pours vaguely troubling breath.
      Then shall you see shadows whereof the sun,
      Knows nothing--aye, a thousand shadows there
      Shall leap and flicker and stir and stay and run,
      Like petrels of the changing foul or fair;
      Like ghosts of twilight, of the moon, of him
      Whose homeland lies past each horizon's rim . . .

"Sonnet" is reprinted from Modern American Poetry. Ed. Louis Untermeyer. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Howe, 1919.

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