Figure C7 EVENTIDE
A dusky strand beneath a twilit wood
Where no bird sings, heavy with moss and fern,
In a warm age: never has forest stood
So near the Pole, and, as the seasons turn
The sun skims low and never dares to spurn
The dark horizon. See, there, in the shade,
A reptile’s shape that heat will never burn,
A great-eyed hunting lizard in the glade.
Above, the Southern Lights in majesty arrayed.