  How shrink the snows upon this upland field, Under the dove-grey dome of brooding noon! They shrink with soft, reluctant shocks, and soon In sad brown ranks the furrows lie revealed. From radiant cisterns of the frost unsealed Now wakes through all the air a watery rune— The babble of a million brooks atune, In fairy conduits of blue ice concealed. Noisy with crows, the wind-break on the hill Counts o’er its buds for summer. In the air Some shy foreteller prophesies with skill— Some voyaging ghost of bird, some effluence rare; And the stall-wearied cattle dream their fill Of deep June pastures where the pools are fair. |
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