DARK was the world when I rode to Rock-winner And saw the wry steeple that leaned on the wind. The willows were shrilling their thin @3miserere,@1 With late rains the ditches were filling. Ill seemed the world: the waters' wan moanings, The deep undertones of the ages-old wind, And wild duck under the wild clouds stretching, And gusts from the far sea, like thunder. The trees' congregation was huddled and muttering, While tall poplars fluttered black flags in the wind; And on the hill's naked green breast rose three ash-trees, By the cloudy outriders fierce rakèd. But the three trees hung empty, bowed with no burden, The noise of old Sacrifice hushed on the wind; Bent bushes unfurled, the waters sang loudly, The hill rose proudly—fair was the world. |