No wind there
is that either pipes or moans;
The fields are cold and still;
with a blue-gray sheet
cloud; and at my feet
The river, curling softly by,
Whispers and dimples round its quiet gray stones.
chill green slope that dips and heaves
The road runs rough and silent,
misty and blue-gray,
pallid as the day,
In masses spectral, undefined,
Pale greenish stems half hid in dry gray leaves.
And on beside
the riverís sober edge
A long fresh field lies black.
gray and reddish stand,
with birch; and near at hand
Over a little steel-smooth pond,
Hang multitudes of thin and withering sedge.
waste and solitary rise
A ploughman urges his dull team,
gray figure with prone brow
bending to the plough
With strong, uneven steps. The
Rings and re-echoes with his furious cries.
the lowing of a cow, long-drawn,
Comes from far off; and crows
Pass on the
A flock of
small gray goldfinches,
Flown down with silvery twitterings,
Rustle among the birch-cones and are gone.
the season seems like one that heeds,
With fixed ear and lifted hand,
that yet are known on earth,
that have faintest birth,
If haply she may understand
The utmost inward sense of all her deeds.