At Winter'S End

The weedy fallows winter-worn, Where cattle shiver under sodden hay. The plough-lands long and lorn-- The fading day.

The sullen shudder of the brook, And winds that wring the writhen trees in vain For drearier sound or look-- The lonely rain.

The crows that train o'er desert skies In endless caravans that have no goal But flight--where darkness flies-- From Pole to Pole.

The sombre zone of hills around That shrink in misty mournfulness from sight, With sunset aureoles crowned-- Before the night.