While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows[28], borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn[29];
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft[30];
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats.