by: Arthur Davison Ficke
- 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 . . .
MORE POEMS BY ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE
"Sonnet" is reprinted
from Modern American Poetry. Ed. Louis Untermeyer. New
York: Harcourt, Brace & Howe, 1919.