Stare from the lattice of a mill,
While the lank sails clacked idly by
High on the windy hill.
FOG
STAGNANT this wintry gloom. Afar
The farm-cock bugles his 'Qui vive?'
The towering elms are lost in mist;
Birds in the thorn-trees huddle a-whist;
The mill-race waters grieve.
Our shrouded day