John Freeman Quotes

It was the lovely moon—she lifted Slowly her white brow among Bronze cloud-waves that ebbed and drifted Faintly, faintlier afar.

Than these November skies Is no sky lovelier. The clouds are deep; Into their grey the subtle spies Of colour creep, Changing their high austerity to delight, Till ev’n the leaden interfolds are bright.

In that sharp light the fields did lie Naked and stone-like; each tree stood Like a tranced woman, bound and stark, Far off the wood With darkness ridged the riven dark.