THEY stream across the fading western sky A sable cloud, far o'er the lonely leas; Now parting into scattered companies, Now closing up the broken ranks, still high And higher yet they mount, while, carelessly, Trail slow behind, athwart the moving trees A lingering few, 'round whom the evening breeze Plays with sad whispered murmurs as they fly.
A lonely figure, ghostly in the dim And darkening twilight, lingers in the shade Of bending willows: "Surely God has laid His curse on me," he moans, "my strength of limb And old heart-courage fail me, and I flee Bowed with fell terror at this augury."