The Solitary Scribe

The Solitary Scribe

Shadows and silence fall o'er the earth, As the sun, veiled in gath'ring clouds, dips low in the West. A chilling wind sweeps up from the great Eastern Waters, wrath. Its biting breath the herald of bleak Winter's Sloping gently from Cumorah's hill, The timbered landscape, delved with ditches deep, Falls into brooding obscurity. A strange, unhallowed stillness fills the world: No voice of husbandman or wife—nor song of children Falls on the ear. None but the voice of winds, Rocking the leafless branches of the trees; And the screech of hawk and vulture, Soaring and dipping like pirate frigates On the maddened main.