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They stream across the fading western sky

A sable cloud, far o'er the lonely leas

Now parting into scattered companies

Now closing up the broken ranks, still high

And higher yet they mount, while, carelessly

Trail slow behind, athwart the moving trees

A lingering few, 'round whom the evening breeze

Plays with sad whispered murmurs as they fly

A lonely figure, ghostly in the dim

And darkening twilight, lingers in the shade

Of bending willows: “Surely God has laid

His curse on me,” he moans, “My strength of limb

And old heart-courage fail me, and I flee

Bowed with fell terror at this augury.”