Cawing rooks in tangled flight

Cawing rooks in tangled flightCome crowding home against the night.And all other wings are stillExcept rooks tumbling down the hillOf evening sky. The crimson fallsUpon the solemn ivied walls;The horns of sunset slowly soundBetween the waiting sky and ground;The cedars painted on the skyHide the sun slow flaminglyRepeated level on the lake,Smooth and still and without shake,Until the swans' inverted graceWreathes in thought its placid faceWith spreading lines like opening fansMoved by white and languid hands.

Now the vesper song of bellsBeneath the evening flows and swells,And the twilight's silver throatSlowly repeats each resonant note:The dying day gives those who sorrowA boon no king can give: a morrow.

The westering sun has climbed the wallAnd silently we watch night fallWhile sunset lingers in the treesIts subtle gold-shot tapestries,The sky is velvet overheadWhere petalled stars are canopiedLike sequins in a spreading trainWithout fold or break or stain.

A cool wind whispers by the headsOf flowers dreaming in their bedsLike convent girls, filling their sleepWith strange dreams from the outer deep.On every hill battalioned treesMarch skyward on unmoving knees,And like a spider on a veilClimbs the moon. A nightingale,Lost in the trees against the sky,Loudly repeats its jewelled cry.