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Poem by William Allingham
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.
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