The long crow-lines push woodward string on string,1
And whirring to their willow-beds away,2
The dusky starlings beat with burnished wing3
The golden air of the declining day.4
Low down, the sun sets grandly ; and the fields,5
The rocks and trees, and the still pools, are dashed6
With shifting showers of gold. The twilight steals7
Up from the plain anon ; anon, abashed,8
As fearing to be seen, a star or two9
Steal out faint, timid lights. One dear day more10
The gluttonous Past, that, hungering ages through,11
Is never filled, unto her monstrous store12
Hath safely added ; and another time13
Stern Night fulfils her mystery sublime.14