Poetry Archives

I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin,
When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked:
I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct,
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day.
  White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;
  The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken;
  And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may,
  And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.