A July Day

To-day the sun has steadfast been and clear;
No wind has marred the spell of hushful heat,
But with the twilight comes a rush and beat
Of ghost-like wings; the sky turns gray and drear,
The trees are stricken with a sudden fear.
O wind forlorn, that sayest nothing sweet,
With what foreboding message dost thou greet
The dearest month but one of all the year?

Ah, now it seems I catch the moan of seas
Whose boundaries are pale regions of dismay,
Where sad-eyed people wander without ease;
I see in thought that lamentable array.
And surely hear about the dying day
Recorded dooms and mournful prophecies.