On the bare fields the trees in straggling rows
Earthward their leafless branches have outspread:
The roofs are darkened by a flock of crows,
Dusk from their wings upon the world is shed.
The sky-line's fringe in sudden redness blazed, —
It gleams with orange hues that slowly die:
Haply, an angel's golden robe; he raised
Day in his arms, and bore it back on high.
“A year in the south” (1878).
4. ECLOGUE IV.
See'st thou how o'er the mountains morning is ablaze:
Hear'st thou beneath the hedge-row how the grass-midge sings?
O come to me: Theocritus has filled my heart with lays,
My soul is as a mead in rainbow colourings.
What is it nigh my head doth sound?
As though were flung a cymbal on the grassy ground.
Come, to the forest's marge amid the shade we fare,
The world shall see its image mirrored in thine eyes,
O come and feast thy gaze upon the wine-gold air,
And on the dew that clad the buds in pearly guise.
If, love, thou enviest the dower,
More than thou know'st, the fern upon thy locks will shower.
Or wouldst thou vale-wards go, and see the tints of red,
Decking the moss and leaves, and every ripening haw?
Or art thou timid lest, ere thither we have sped,
Chance haply will avail, my tips to thine to draw?
Doth crimson on thy cheeks appear?
A truce to berries, for thy lips are sweeter cheer!