In scattered plumes the floating clouds

Went drifting down the west,

Like barks that in their haven soon

Would moor and be at rest.

The Day sank down, a monarch tired,

Upon Night’s sable breast.

The wind was all but hushed to sleep,

Yet now and then it stirred

A great tree’s top, and whispering,

Awoke a slumbering bird,

Who half aroused, but only chirped

A song of just a word.

And in the west the rosy light

Spread out a thousand arms,

Each with a torch, whose crimson flame

Stretched o’er the peaceful farms,

And o’er the yellow corn, that lay

Unconscious of all harms.

Then changed into a waste of blue

A desert tract of air,

Where no rich clouds, like Indian flowers

Bore blossoms bright and fair;

And over all, a sense of want

And something lost was there.

—Walter Thornbury.