Description

“At morn I saw the level plain

So rich and small beneath my feet,

A sapphire sea without a stain,

And fields of golden-waving wheat;

Lingering I said, "At noon I'll be

At peace by that sweet-scented tide.

How far, how fair my course shall be,

Before I come to the Eventide!"

Where is it fled, that radiant plain?

I stumble now in miry ways;

Dark clouds drift landward, big with rain,

And lonely moors their summits raise.

On, on with hurrying feet I range,

And left and right in the dumb hillside

Grey gorges open, drear and strange,

And so I come to the Eventide!”

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