All entries for Friday 28 November 2008

The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; 
And, if the sun looks through, ‘tis with a face 
Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, 
When done the journey of her nightly race, 
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place. 
For days the shepherds in the fields may be, 
Nor mark a patch of sky — blindfold they trace, 
The plains, that seem without a bush or tree, 
Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose, 
Crouching and sleeping ‘neath its grassy lair, 
And scarcely startles, tho’ the shepherd goes 
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there; 
The wild colt only turns around to stare 
At passer by, then knaps his hide again; 
And moody crows beside the road, forbear 
To fly, tho’ pelted by the passing swain; 
Thus day seems turn’d to night, and tries to wake in vain.

The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon, 
And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light; 
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon, 
And small birds chirp and startle with affright; 
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight, 
Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay; 
While cow-boys think the day a dream of night, 
And oft grow fearful on their lonely way, 
Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day. 

Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings 
Its murky prison round — then winds wake loud; 
With sudden stir the startled forest sings 
Winter’s returning song — cloud races cloud, 
And the horizon throws away its shroud, 
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye; 
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd, 
And o’er the sameness of the purple sky 
Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.

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