Mountains or clouds

And when the linnet sings no more,
When shadows stretch to grotesque heights,
Sometimes I pause at my front door
And watch the day’s decaying lights.
And over in the blazing west
Where hope bows down in blues and greys
Reclining ‘pon the earth undressed,
The evening sings her hymn of praise.
But lo! Those dark and smould’ring shrouds –
Be they firm hills or wispy clouds?

A mass of limestone looming high
Above the long and fruitful plain?
Or formless vapour in the sky,
The harbinger of big-eyed rain?
As evening folds another day
And stacks it neatly on the chair,
I gaze upon this shapeless grey
And wonder if my dreams lie there.
Or are my mountains merely strands
That slip between excited hands?