  When milking-time is done, and over all This quiet Canadian inland forest home And wide rough pasture-lots the shadows come, And dews, with peace and twilight voices, fall, From moss-cooled watering-trough to foddered stall The tired plough-horses turn,—the barnyard loam Soft to their feet,—and in the sky’s pale dome Like resonant chords the swooping night-jars call. The frogs, cool-fluting ministers of dream, Make shrill the slow brook’s borders; pasture bars Down clatter, and the cattle wander through,— Vague shapes amid the thickets; gleam by gleam Above the wet grey wilds emerge the stars, And through the dusk the farmstead fades from view. |
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