Tristram Livingstone

We left in the cool hour, the green hour before the dawn, And drove the frightened sheep before us up the hills To higher pasture, there to graze upon The wind-combed fields, and to lamb among the mountain daffodils. Then on the peak that daily fol [...]

Ever the hawk will scour a likely field For little mice a-tremble in their fur. Deep in the singing wood, dead leaves will shield A shattered body, and the brittle stir Of air exploring some small empty skull. Lax in the spider's morning web, a fly H [...]