Moon-Dawn

Clark Ashton Smith

The hills, a-throng with swarthy pine,
Press up the pale and hollow sky,
And the squat cypresses on high
Reach from the lit horizon-line

They reach, they reach, with gnarlèd hands—
Malignant hags, obscene and dark—
While the red moon, a demons' ark,
Is borne along the mystic lands.

Printed from: www.eldritchdark.com/writings/poetry/346
Printed on: November 22, 2017