Gold

A poem by Henry Newbolt

(AFTER GIOVANNI PASCOLI)

At bedtime, when the sunset fire was red
One cypress turned to gold beneath its touch.
"Sleep now, my little son," the mother said;
"In God's high garden all the trees are such."
Then did the child in his bright dream behold
Branches of gold, trees, forests all of gold.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Gold' by Henry Newbolt

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy