Richard Arthur Warren Hughes
Cold shone the moon, with noise The night went by. Trees uttered things of woe:
Poets, painters, and puddings; these three Make up the World as it ought to be. Poets make faces
The yellow sky grows vivid as the sun: The sea glittering, and the hills dun. The stones quiver. Twenty pounds of lead
When the slow year creeps hay-ward, and the skies Are warming in the summer's mild surprise, And the still breeze disturbs each leafy frond
