A thrush throbs out his mournful melody,
And shadowy fingers of approaching Dusk
Clutch vaguely at the trees
And shroud the purple hills:
And softly sobbing noon-winds float astir,
Bedewing tearful kisses on the buds
That freeze in filmy fold:
The waters, icy-chill,
Are gurgling from their depths, and nestling birds
Stand sunset-splashed, with plumage all dismay'd,