• Tonight this sunset spreads two golden wings
• Cleaving the Western sky;
• Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings
• Of birds; as if the day's last hour in rings
• Of strenuous flight must die.

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

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

• Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight,
• To many a refuge tend;
• With the first light she laughed, and the last light
• Glows round her still; who natheless in the night
• 20 At length must make an end.

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

• Is Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart?
• Therefore, O dying day,
• Even as thou goest must she too depart,
• And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart,
• 30 As will not fly away?