The lonely season in lonely lands, when fled Are half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sun Is rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed; The short days pass unwelcomed one by one. Out by the ricks the mantled engine stands Crestfallen, deserted,—for now all hands Are told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appear The teams following and crossing far and near, As hour by hour they broaden the brown bands Of the striped fields; and behind them firk and prance The heavy rooks, and daws grey-pated dance: As awhile, surmounting a crest, in sharp outline (A miniature of toil, a gem’s design,) They are pictured, horses and men, or now near by Above the lane they shout lifting the share, By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air; Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle lie Packed by the gales of Autumn, and in and out The small wrens glide With a happy note of cheer, And yellow amorets flutter above and about, Gay, familiar in fear. And now, if the night shall be cold, across the sky Linnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter, All the afternoon to the gardens fly, From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelter Of American rhododendron or cherry-laurel: And here and there, near chilly setting of sun, In an isolated tree a congregation Of starlings chatter and chide, Thickset as summer leaves, in garrulous quarrel: Suddenly they hush as one,— The tree top springs,— And off, with a whirr of wings, They fly by the score To the holly-thicket, and there with myriads more Dispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nation A babel of tongues, like running water unceasing, Makes live the wood, the flocking cries increasing, Wrangling discordantly, incessantly, While falls the night on them self-occupied; The long dark night, that lengthens slow, Deepening with Winter to starve grass and tree, And soon to bury in snow The Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole, Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless pole Of how her end shall be. 15 WINTER NIGHTFALL The day begins to droop,— Its course is done: But nothing tells the place Of the setting sun. The hazy darkness deepens, And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see, The homing wain. An engine pants and hums In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost In the lowering sky. The soaking branches drip, And all night through The dropping will not cease In the avenue. A tall man there in the house Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again Breathe the spring air: His heart is worn with work; He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far As the nearest rick: