Dusk

The frightened herds of clouds across the sky

Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day

Into the dusky forest-lands of gray

And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,

The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry

Sad as the wail of some poor castaway

Who sees a vessel drifting far astray

Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.

The children, riotous from school, grow bold

And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust

Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold

Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust

In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold

Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.