The Twilight Woods Poem by Clark Ashton Smith

As eve to purple turns the afterglow
That lately with a rich and fervent red
Illumed the sunset skies, my feet are led
By whispering spirits of the winds that blow
At this grey hour, and many secrets know,
To where the oaks and pines meet overhead
In plots to keep away the light. I tread
Beneath their archways pensively and slow.

Here darkening twillight is a sorcery
Whereby all things are rendered weird and strange:
Bushes and trees fantastic shapes assume,
And shadows lurk within the forest's range
Felt but unseen, for when I turn they flee
To darker depths of consecrated gloom.