THE windy evening drops a grey Old eyelid down across the sun, The last crow leaves the ploughman's way, And happy lambs make no more fun. Wild parsley buds beside my feet, A doubtful thrush makes hurried tune, The steeple in the village street Doth seem to pierce the twilight moon. I hear and see those changing charms, For all -- my thoughts are fixed upon The hurry and the loud alarms Before the fall of Babylon. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEVEN TIMES SEVEN [- LONGING FOR HOME] by JEAN INGELOW ON LOOKING INTO GOLDING'S OVID by STEVE SCAFIDI JR. THE OLD FERRYMAN by ANTIPHILUS OF BYZANTIUM THE DRUG-SHOP, OR, ENDYMION IN EDMONSTOUN by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET DEDICATION OF THE DESIGNS TO BLAIR'S GRAVE: TO THE QUEEN by WILLIAM BLAKE ADVICE TO THE REVERENDS ON THEIR PREACHING SLOWLY by JOHN BYROM REMEMBRANCE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON MASQUE AT THE MARRIAGE OF THE LORD HAYES: SONG by THOMAS CAMPION |