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• To-night this sunset is like spreads two golden wings
• Cleaving the western sky;
• Winged too with wild wind too it is, & with gatherings winnowings
• Of birds, as if the day's last honor in rings
• Of dizying strenuous flight did fly would must die.

• Like winnowing fires Fan-tipped with Sun-steeped in fire the homeward pinions sway
• Above the dovecote-tops;
• And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day,
• Sink, loud-tongued as clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play,
• 10By turns in every copse.

• Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives,—
• But Save for the whirr within,
• You could not tell the starlings from the leaves:
• Then one great puff of wings, & the swarm heaves
• Away with all its din.

• So wayward Thought Hope in ever-varying flight
  Added TextEven thus Hope's hours, in circling ever-eddying flight,
• To many a rest doth refuge tend:
• With the first light she laughed, & the last light
• Gladdens Calls on Plays round her still; who natheless in the night
• 20At length must make an end.

• And now the gathering mustering rooks innumerable
• Are seen to Together sail & soar,
• While for the day's death, like a tolling knell,
• Unto the heart they cry, “No more, farewell,
• Farewell, no more!”

• Hope too is plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart:
• But oh thou dying day,
• When shall Joy her wing return, that did doth depart?
• For Sorrow folds her such pinions on the heart
• 30 And never flies As will not fly away