  Shrill and shy from the dusk they cry, Faintly from over the hill; Out of the gray where shadows lie, Out of the gold where sheaves are high, Covey to covey, call and reply, Plaintively, shy and shrill. Dies the day, and from far away Under the evening star Dies the echo as dies the day, Droops with the dew in the new-mown hay, Sinks and sleeps in the scent of May, Dreamily, faint and far. —Frank Saville in the Pall Mall Magazine. |
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