Sir Osbert Sitwell
Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night,
Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh
For their past vivid vernal ecstasy.
The branches and the leaves let in the light
In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky
- Create mysterious Gothic tracery,
Between those high dark pillars,- that affright
Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by.
Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain,