(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.
Gold
Henry John Newbolt, Sir
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Poem topics: child, dream, fire, god, mother, red, sleep, son, sunset, bright, garden, touch, high, beneath, gold, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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