The lights from the plains fade in and out,
They scurry through weeds dancing beams in the sun,
They seem to belay every memory and dream,
Every countless bright space, every stone mute and dumb.
The linnet is singing high up in the tree,
The bending white willow on banks thin with foam,
The meadows around her are shaken with white;
Red poppies are scattered in threads from the loam.
A violet is dead on the ripest of graves,
The lyrics of breezes blow steady and slow;
The darkness is coming, the last shadows running:
The final sounds drowned in the brook's tepid flow.