A Sketch From Nature
The air blows pure, for twenty miles,
Over this vast countrie:
Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth,
Over steeple, and stack, and tree:
And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth
How sweet these meadows be.
The swallows are flying beside the wood,
And the corbies are hoarsely crying;
And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood,
And, thorough the hedge and over the road,
On the grassy slope is lying:
And the sheep are taking their supper-food
While yet the rays are dying.
Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows,
And giant-long shadows the trees are making;
And velvet soft are the woodland tufts,
And misty-gray the low-down crofts;
But the aspens there have gold-green tops,
And the gold-green tops are shaking:
The spires are white in the sun's last light;--
And yet a moment ere he drops,
Gazes the sun on the golden slopes.
Two sheep, afar from fold,
Are on the hill-side straying,
With backs all silver, breasts all gold:
The merle is something saying,
Something very very sweet:--
'The day--the day--the day is done:'
There answereth a single bleat--
The air is cold, the sky is dimming,
And clouds are long like fishes swimming.
_Sydenham Wood_, 1849.
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