The air is moist with thaw,
font: Pie Contest
See more in my Landscapes set Here
Walter Wingate.
A Misty Dawn
The air is moist with thaw;
And where with patient moil
The teams their furrows draw,
A following halo crowns their warmth of toil.
The alders where they rim
The half-awakened stream,
Are vapour swathed and dim,
Like morning sleepers trammelled yet with dream.
The autumn hues are flown:
The landscape waits the day
Subdued to monotone:
A pencil sketch upon a ground of grey.
But where the morning shows
Beyond the eastern pale,
The mist is warmed with rose-
Faint as a blush behind a bridal veil.
The erubescence dies:
The world is grey again:
And through the alders sighs
A quiet fall of soft November rain.
The air is moist with thaw,
font: Pie Contest
See more in my Landscapes set Here
Walter Wingate.
A Misty Dawn
The air is moist with thaw;
And where with patient moil
The teams their furrows draw,
A following halo crowns their warmth of toil.
The alders where they rim
The half-awakened stream,
Are vapour swathed and dim,
Like morning sleepers trammelled yet with dream.
The autumn hues are flown:
The landscape waits the day
Subdued to monotone:
A pencil sketch upon a ground of grey.
But where the morning shows
Beyond the eastern pale,
The mist is warmed with rose-
Faint as a blush behind a bridal veil.
The erubescence dies:
The world is grey again:
And through the alders sighs
A quiet fall of soft November rain.