  The sun sank, and the wind uprist whose note Piped on amid the stubble melodies Of such appeal as ’scape the limber throat Of robin singing under saffron skies;— Then did he breathe like winding of a horn, Whereat some sable flock of clouds affrighted Huddled across their rosy pasturage Behind the troubled leaves,— Larger he loomed, a traveller benighted, Hinting of menace and insurgent rage Around the placid twilight of our eaves. The sun was gone; beneath the steady stars That watched the spectral anticks of the oak The plumÈd elm-tops met in savage wars, The smitten pools in argent splinters broke; While, as a labourer among the boughs Cudgels a harvest from the branches crooked, Within the orchard fence one plied a flail That woke the sleeping house, Till from the shivered lattice faces looked Whitely, because the apples fell like hail. The sun uprose, serenely gold and fair, And Morning in a little ruffled pond Scanned her sweet face and prinkt her yellow hair. Around her mirror lapped the leaves, beyond |
|
