So rich and small beneath my feet,
A sapphire sea without a stain,
And fields of golden-waving wheat;
Lingering I said, "At noon I'll be
At peace by that sweet-scented tide.
How far, how fair my course shall be,
Before I come to the Eventide!"
Where is it fled, that radiant plain?
I stumble now in miry ways;
Dark clouds drift landward, big with rain,