14NOVEMBERThe lonely season in lonely lands, when fledAre half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sunIs rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed;The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.Out by the ricks the mantled engine standsCrestfallen, deserted,—for now all handsAre told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appearThe teams following and crossing far and near,As hour by hour they broaden the brown bandsOf the striped fields; and behind them firk and pranceThe 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 byAbove the lane they shout lifting the share,By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air;Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle liePacked by the gales of Autumn, and in and outThe small wrens glideWith 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 skyLinnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter,All the afternoon to the gardens fly,From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelterOf American rhododendron or cherry-laurel:And here and there, near chilly setting of sun,In an isolated tree a congregationOf 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 scoreTo the holly-thicket, and there with myriads moreDispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nationA 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 snowThe Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole,Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless poleOf how her end shall be.
14NOVEMBERThe lonely season in lonely lands, when fledAre half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sunIs rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed;The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.Out by the ricks the mantled engine standsCrestfallen, deserted,—for now all handsAre told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appearThe teams following and crossing far and near,As hour by hour they broaden the brown bandsOf the striped fields; and behind them firk and pranceThe 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 byAbove the lane they shout lifting the share,By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air;Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle liePacked by the gales of Autumn, and in and outThe small wrens glideWith 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 skyLinnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter,All the afternoon to the gardens fly,From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelterOf American rhododendron or cherry-laurel:And here and there, near chilly setting of sun,In an isolated tree a congregationOf 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 scoreTo the holly-thicket, and there with myriads moreDispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nationA 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 snowThe Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole,Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless poleOf how her end shall be.
The lonely season in lonely lands, when fledAre half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sunIs rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed;The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.Out by the ricks the mantled engine standsCrestfallen, deserted,—for now all handsAre told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appearThe teams following and crossing far and near,As hour by hour they broaden the brown bandsOf the striped fields; and behind them firk and pranceThe 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 byAbove the lane they shout lifting the share,By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air;Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle liePacked by the gales of Autumn, and in and outThe small wrens glideWith 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 skyLinnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter,All the afternoon to the gardens fly,From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelterOf American rhododendron or cherry-laurel:And here and there, near chilly setting of sun,In an isolated tree a congregationOf 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 scoreTo the holly-thicket, and there with myriads moreDispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nationA 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 snowThe Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole,Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless poleOf how her end shall be.
The lonely season in lonely lands, when fledAre half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sunIs rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed;The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.Out by the ricks the mantled engine standsCrestfallen, deserted,—for now all handsAre told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appearThe teams following and crossing far and near,As hour by hour they broaden the brown bandsOf the striped fields; and behind them firk and pranceThe 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 byAbove the lane they shout lifting the share,By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air;Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle liePacked by the gales of Autumn, and in and outThe small wrens glideWith 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 skyLinnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter,All the afternoon to the gardens fly,From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelterOf American rhododendron or cherry-laurel:And here and there, near chilly setting of sun,In an isolated tree a congregationOf 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 scoreTo the holly-thicket, and there with myriads moreDispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nationA 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 snowThe Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole,Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless poleOf how her end shall be.
The lonely season in lonely lands, when fledAre half the birds, and mists lie low, and the sunIs rarely seen, nor strayeth far from his bed;The short days pass unwelcomed one by one.
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 standsCrestfallen, deserted,—for now all handsAre told to the plough,—and ere it is dawn appearThe teams following and crossing far and near,As hour by hour they broaden the brown bandsOf the striped fields; and behind them firk and pranceThe 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 byAbove the lane they shout lifting the share,By the trim hedgerow bloom’d with purple air;Where, under the thorns, dead leaves in huddle liePacked by the gales of Autumn, and in and outThe small wrens glideWith a happy note of cheer,And yellow amorets flutter above and about,Gay, familiar in fear.
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 skyLinnets and twites, in small flocks helter-skelter,All the afternoon to the gardens fly,From thistle-pastures hurrying to gain the shelterOf American rhododendron or cherry-laurel:And here and there, near chilly setting of sun,In an isolated tree a congregationOf 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 scoreTo the holly-thicket, and there with myriads moreDispute for the roosts; and from the unseen nationA 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 snowThe Earth, that, sleeping ’neath her frozen stole,Shall dream a dream crept from the sunless poleOf how her end shall be.
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.