The sinking sun is taking leave, And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve, While huddling clouds of purple dye Gloomy hang the western sky. Crows crowd croaking over-head, Hastening to the woods to bed. Cooing sits the lonely dove, Calling home her absent love. With “Kirchup! kirchup!” ’mong the wheats, Partridge distant partridge greets; Beckoning hints to those that roam, That guide the squander’d covey home. Swallows check their winding flight, And twittering on the chimney light. Round the pond the martins flirt, Their snowy breasts bedaub’d with dirt, While the mason, ’neath the slates, Each mortar-bearing bird awaits: By art untaught, each labouring spouse Curious daubs his hanging house. Bats flit by in hood and cowl; Through the barn-hole pops the owl; From the hedge, in drowsy hum, Heedless buzzing beetles bum, Haunting every bushy place, Flopping in the labourer’s face. Now the snail hath made his ring; And the moth with snowy wing Circles round in winding whirls, Through sweet evening’s sprinkled pearls On each nodding rush besprent; Dancing on from bent to bent: Now to downy grasses clung, Resting for a while he’s hung; Strong to ferry o’er the stream, Vanishing as flies a dream: Playful still his hours to keep, Till his time has come to sleep; In tall grass, by fountain-head, Weary then he drops to bed. From the hay-cock’s moisten’d heaps Startled frogs take vaunting leaps; And along the shaven mead, Jumping travellers, they proceed: Quick the dewy grass divides, Moistening sweet their speckled sides; From the grass or flowret’s cup, Quick the dew-drop bounces up. Now the blue fog creeps along, And the bird’s forgot his song: Flowers now sleep within their hoods; Daisies button into buds; From soiling dew the butter-cup Shuts his golden jewels up; And the rose and woodbine they Wait again the smiles of day. ’Neath the willow’s wavy boughs, Dolly, singing, milks hers cows; While the brook, as bubbling by, Joins in murmuring melody. Dick and Dob, with jostling joll, Homeward drag the rumbling roll; Whilom Ralph, for Doll to wait, Lolls him o’er the pasture gate. Swains to fold their sheep begin; Dogs loud barking drive them in. Hedgers now along the road Homeward bend beneath their load; And from the long furrow’d seams, Ploughmen loose their weary teams: Ball, with urging lashes weal’d. Still so slow to drive a-field, Eager blundering from the plough, Wants no whip to drive him now; At the stable-door he stands, Looking round for friendly hands To loose the door its fast’ning pin, And let him with his corn begin. Round the yard, a thousand ways Beasts in expectation gaze, Catching at the loads of hay