  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. |
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