"The sky is colored 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 elfin 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!"