The night-frost creeping close
Across that chilling sky
Which steals the sound of footsteps
Brings feeling to the eye;
The feeling that a veil of shimmering
Light is going by.

Things that were in hiding
Emerge.  They skirt around
The willow trees in the distance
With that sly squeechy sound
Of wet straw-sandals walking
On water-rotten ground.

Look, silver weapons in their hands
Sharp in the darkness shine,
Silver weapons held straight up
Above the temple-line;
Arms from the arsenals of light,
Archaic, argentine.