Ii.--Midday On The Edge Of The Downs

Stillness falls and a glare. The woods in darkness lie. The fields are stretched and stare Under the empty sky. Vacant the ways of the air, Along which no birds fly. Only the high sun's flare Spills on the empty sky.

I lift my aching eyes From the dry wilderness: Across me a peewit flies With gestures meaningless.... Mine are his piping cries At this world's emptiness!

1913.