SILENT are the woods, and the dim green boughs are br Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through br The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy br Calling the cows home. br br A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but br Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset br Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on br The misty hill-tops. br br Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning br Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are br A silent army of phantoms thronging br A land of shadows.