AFTERMATH.
Yet the dewy nights are sweet; and the lagging dawn
Awakes to the ringing scythe, like a heavy sleeper;
And the dyke-ward drift of the tide with the marsh-hay mown,
Drives off the cranes from the hidden creeks grown deeper.
As a tired troop of horses march in sleep
When the weary riders hear not the sounding sabres;
So comes the tide with the flooding march of the deep,
Across the marshes to the winding rivers.
And a ship like a gull swings off the anchoring clay,
And drifts with the fisher-craft from the nearer offing;
While the inshore flight of the gulls on the edge of day
Startles the silent flats with joyless laughing.
As the sea drifts in the toilers deep in the tide
Gather the grass, as fishermen drag the meshes—
Hunters surrounding the game on every side,
Till the spoil is captive in the binding leashes.
Trumpet-like the call of the herds long-blown
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