AT WINTER'S END

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.