Down to the far-off river; the black crow

With wise and wary visage to and fro

Settles and stalks about the withered grass.

Here, when the murmurous May-day is half gone,

The watchful lark before my feet takes flight,

And wheeling to some lonelier field far on,

Drops with obstreperous cry; and here at night,

When the first star precedes the great red moon,

The shore-lark tinkles from the darkening field,

Somewhere, we know not, in the dusk concealed,

His little creakling and continuous tune.

Here, too, the robins, lusty as of old,

Hunt the waste grass for forage, or prolong

From every quarter of these fields the bold,

Blithe phrases of their never-finished song.

[16]

The white-throat's distant descant with slow stress

Note after note upon the noonday falls,

Filling the leisured air at intervals

With his own mood of piercing pensiveness.

 Prev. P 15/70 next