Richard Hunt

OUT of the blue-gray dusk

He comes—

The ghostly one,

The gray one,

Driving his ghostly wagon.

Nearer he comes, and nearer,

Silent

Except for his singing flower

That burns a violet hole in the air,

That melts a violet hole in the snowy dusk.

He comes with a flower of burning mist

On the tip of a copper stalk;

He comes with a misty flower that sings

And burns a violet hole

In the blue-gray dusk.

He touches dark stems in a row,

He tips them with his hot mist-flower,

Stem after stem;

And one by one

They bloom, and glow,

And have white flowers on them,

And burn pale blue holes, green ghastly holes,

In the silent air,

In the blue-gray snowy dusk.