Haunted Hour by Leah Bodine Drake

The sky is coloured like a peacock’s breast;

There lingers yet one thin, chill line of gold

Down where the woods their somber branches hold

In silhouette against the fading west.

Dark leaves, dark earth, slow-breathing and at rest,

Whence frail scents rise of dew-wet grass and mold.

A single star gleams diamond-clear and cold,

Like one sharp note from angel viol wrest.
This is the haunted hour — such woods surround

Grey Merlin in his oak, adrouse with dwale;

In such a gloaming once the lorn knight found

The faery woman in the river-vale;

And underneath this star long, long ago

The Dark Tower heard a lonely slug-horn blow!