Night In The Hills.

There'll be a wind from olden hills,
And in the valleys, sleeping,
Freckled foxgloves, pink and white,
And light and shadow creeping
Through tawny grass and bracken brown,
And night will come down slowly,
With crescent moon in darkling sky,
The silence will be holy.
The tall dark trees will move and sigh,
The hills will breath more deeply,
And draw the clouds more closely round
Their rugged shoulders shapely.
A rimu weeps above a pool
That laves its feet, reflecting
Its shadowy grace among the stars.
Night's hands reach out, protecting
The growing things, the little things.
She brings them sleep and healing—
The mystic hours that gird the soul
Against the day that's stealing
In from the sea. Oh, pitiful
The hands of night, and holy.
The little winds cry home my heart.
Night yields hér slowly, slowly…‥

—E. Mary Gurney.

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