The weedy fallows winter-worn,
Where cattle shiver under sodden hay.
The plough-lands long and lorn —
The fading day.
The sullen shudder of the brook,
And winds that wring the writhen trees in vain
For drearier sound or look —
The lonely rain.
The crows that train o'er desert skies
In endless caravans that have no goal
But flight — where darkness flies —
From Pole to Pole.
The sombre zone of hills around
That shrink in misty mournfulness from sight,
With sunset aureoles crowned —
Before the night.