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A MARCH EVENING
Here
Glimmers our path, still vaguely clear,
The little rutted chalky way
That none, I’ll warrant, all the day
Has trod, save us. On either hand
The dim, pathetic downs expand,—
Patches of wan and whiten’d green,
Or purple where the plough has been,
And tawny hillocks. Not a sound,
Save, somewhere rustling near the ground,
A homeward lark; and, far behind,
A great voice vanquishing the wind—
The Sea’s.
All else is near asleep,
No daring star makes shift to peep
Twixt these wild massy clouds that fly
So fast along the pallid sky.
Only the lighthouse beacon streams
Athwart the night in two bright beams
That lonelier make the dark.
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