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.