Dusk lowers in this uneasy pause of rain;

a blackness clings and thickens on the pane

and damp grows; westward only, watery pale,

two yellow streaks, wan glory, slowly fail:

night shall be loud and thick with driving spears. —

And this was also in the haunting years

this life hath never known, nor this abode,

when the lone window watch’d the lonely road

winding into the exiled west, across

the desolate plain, with, seldom on its fosse

tipt black against grey gloom, a poplar spire;

and I could know the sunset’s broken fire

burn’d sombrely in many a leaden glass

whose look was dead amid the morbid grass

where never a dancing foot of harvest came

and ways were lost, a land of vanish’d name.