A Sketch From Nature
The air blows pure, for twenty miles, Over this vast countrié: Over hill and wood and vale, it goeth, Over steeple, and stack, and tree: And there's not a bird on the wind but knoweth How sweet these meadows be.
The swallows are flying beside the wood, And the corbies are hoarsely crying; And the sun at the end of the earth hath stood, And, thorough the hedge and over the road, On the grassy slope is lying: And the sheep are taking their supper-food While yet the rays are dying.
Sleepy shadows are filling the furrows, And giant-long shadows the trees are making; And velvet soft are the woodland tufts, And misty-gray the low-down crofts; But the aspens there have gold-green tops, And the gold-green tops are shaking: The spires are white in the sun's last light;— And yet a moment ere he drops, Gazes the sun on the golden slopes.
Two sheep, afar from fold, Are on the hill-side straying, With backs all silver, breasts all gold: The merle is something saying, Something very very sweet:— ‘The day—the day—the day is done:’ There answereth a single bleat— The air is cold, the sky is dimming, And clouds are long like fishes swimming.
Sydenham Wood, 1849.