And the streaming window again engages
The thoughts that stray from the field of Prague;
And the moping birds in their gauze-girt cages,
And the wax-work fruits of a genus vague;
And the flies that buzz like a lazy plague
Round the lone lorn jam, as it stands forsaken;
And the varnished pike in the mill-pool taken
About the year that they fought at Prague.
But twilight falls, and its folds encumber
The misty mounds of the patient trees,