AN AUTUMN EVENING.

In scattered plumes the floating clouds Went drifting down the west, Like barks that in their haven soon Would moor and be at rest. The Day sank down, a monarch tired, Upon Night’s sable breast.

The wind was all but hushed to sleep, Yet now and then it stirred A great tree’s top, and whispering, Awoke a slumbering bird, Who half aroused, but only chirped A song of just a word.

And in the west the rosy light Spread out a thousand arms, Each with a torch, whose crimson flame Stretched o’er the peaceful farms, And o’er the yellow corn, that lay Unconscious of all harms.

Then changed into a waste of blue A desert tract of air, Where no rich clouds, like Indian flowers Bore blossoms bright and fair; And over all, a sense of want And something lost was there. —Walter Thornbury.