29 The dove with whistling wings so blue,
The winds can fast collect,
Her purple pens turn many a hue
Against the sun direct.
30 Now noon is gone—gone is mid-day,
The heat does slake at last,
The sun descends down west away,
For three o'clock is past.
* * * * *
31 The rayons of the sun we see
Diminish in their strength,
The shade of every tower and tree
Extended is in length.
32 Great is the calm, for everywhere
The wind is setting down,
The reek[33] throws up right in the air,
From every tower and town.
33 The mavis and the philomeen,[34]
The starling whistles loud,
The cushats[35] on the branches green,
Full quietly they crood.[36]
34 The gloamin[37] comes, the clay is spent,
The sun goes out of sight,
And painted is the occident
With purple sanguine bright.
* * * * *
35 The scarlet nor the golden thread,
Who would their beauty try,
Are nothing like the colour red
And beauty of the sky.
* * * * *