Peaceful and cool, the twilight grey Draws a dim curtain o'er the day, While in my cottage-porch I lurk And watch the last lone hour of work. The fields around are bathed in dew, And, with emotion filled, I view An old man clothed in rags, who throws The seed amid the channeled rows. His shadowy form is looming now High o'er the furrows of the plough; Each motion of his arm betrays A boundless faith in future days. He stalks along the ample plain, Comes, goes, and flings abroad the grain; Unnoted, through the dreamy haze With meditative soul I gaze. At last, the vapours of the night Dilate to heav'n the old man's height, Till every gesture of his hand Seems to my eyes sublimely grand! |