as the sky approaches the earth for thenight it changes colours to be less frightening - it`s vastness is not something to be dealt with easily
do you feel the naked branches shiver with excitement
(i am not sure whether the trees on the sides should be apparent in this particular picture)
ps the poem is
EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
`THE BALLAD OF THE HARP-WEAVER`
"SON," said my mother,/When I was knee-high,/"You`ve need of clothes to cover you,/And not a rag have I. //"There`s nothing in the house/To make a boy breeches,/Nor shears to cut a cloth with/Nor thread to take stitches. //"There`s nothing in the house/But a loaf-end of rye,/And a harp with a woman`s head/Nobody will buy,"/And she began to cry. //That was in the early fall./When came the late fall,/"Son," she said, "the sight of you/Makes your mother`s blood crawl, //"Little skinny shoulder-blades/Sticking through your clothes!/And where you`ll get a jacket from/God above knows. //"It`s lucky for me, lad,/Your daddy`s in the ground,/And can`t see the way I let/His son go around!"/And she made a queer sound. //That was in the late fall./When the winter came,/I`d not a pair of breeches/Nor a shirt to my name. //I couldn`t go to school,/Or out of doors to play./And all the other little boys/Passed our way. //"Son," said my mother,/"Come, climb into my lap,/And I`ll chafe your little bones/While you take a nap." //And, oh, but we were silly/For half an hour or more,/Me with my long legs/Dragging on the floor, //A-rock-rock-rocking/To a mother-goose rhyme!/Oh, but we were happy/For half an hour`s time! //But there was I, a great boy,/And what would folks say/To hear my mother singing me/To sleep all day,/In such a daft way? //Men say the winter/Was bad that year;/Fuel was scarce,/And food was dear. //A wind with a wolf`s head/Howled about our door,/And we burned up the chairs/And sat upon the floor. //All that was left us/Was a chair we couldn`t break,/And the harp with a woman`s head/Nobody would take,/For song or pity`s sake.
[second half to come]