The netted horde that shames the light with their refulgent sheen—
Such charm the gods who dwell on high have given the chill sardine.
So when we find long leagues of smoke compacted in the air,
'Tis not the philosophic part to murmur or to swear,
But patiently unravelling, the threads will soon appear,
In cottage hearths, and burning weeds, and misty woodland sere.
The day is fading, all the West with sunset's glow is bright,
And island clouds of crimson float in depths of emerald light,
Like circles on a rippled lake the tints spread up the sky,
Till, mingling with the purple shade, they touch night's shore, and die.