The shadows of the pines were spread As shadows fall when they are dead; The light was deeper than the night And the stars were silver bright! Oh, what if the lonesomest hour Of death, this moment does devour! And the moonlight be that finger, fain That brushes meadow blooms again! To wander wistful and alone, Where bramble-thorns and roses moan, By every lonesome thought, I find The woods that whispered to the wind! Always the lull of distanced seas, Calls forth the memory of these:— The sunbeams on the tender leaves, That steal like laughter through the eaves.

• Sarah Orne Jewett