bygone things

The vast and solemn company of clouds

Around the Sun's death, lit, incarnadined,

Cool into ashy wan; as Night enshrouds

The level pasture, creeping up behind

Through voiceless vales, o'er lawn and purpled hill

And hazéd mead, her mystery to fulfil.

Cows low from far-off farms; the loitering wind

Sighs in the hedge, you hear it if you will,--

Tho' all the wood, alive atop with wings

Lifting and sinking through the leafy nooks,

Seethes with the clamour of a thousand rooks.

Now every sound at length is hush'd away.

These few are sacred moments. One more Day

Drops in the shadowy gulf of bygone things.

 

William Allingham

Done