Weald

Still is the leaden night:

The film-eyed moon

Spills hardly any light,

But nods to sleep — And soon

Through five broad parishes there is no sound

But the far melancholy wooing

Of evil-minded cats; and the late shoeing

Of some unlucky filly by the ford.

For twenty miles abroad there is no moving,

But for the uncomfortable hooving

Of midnight cows a-row in Parson's Lag:

— That; and the slow twist of water round a snag.

The silver mist that slumbers in the hollow

Dreams of a breeze, and turns upon its side,

So sleep uneasy: but no breezes follow,

Only the moon blinks slowly thrice, wan-eyed.

— I think this is the most unhappy night

Since hot-cheeked Hecuba wept in the dawn.

— There never was a more unhappy night,

Not that when Hero's lamp proved unavailing,

Nor that when Bethlehem was filled with wailing...

... There is no reason for unhappiness,

Save that the saddened stars have hid their faces,

And that dun clouds usurp their brilliant places,

And that the wind lacks even strength to sigh.

And yet, as if outraged by some long tune

A dog cries dolefully, green-eyed in the moon...