Evening In February

The windy evening drops a grey Old eyelid down across the sun, The last crow leaves the ploughman's way And happy lambs make no more fun.

Wild parsley buds beside my feet, A doubtful thrush makes hurried tune, The steeple in the village street Doth seem to pierce the twilight moon.

I hear and see those changing charms, For all--my thoughts are fixed upon The hurry and the loud alarms Before the fall of Babylon.