Then were the beeches bright, then was the stream <br />strewn with white buttercup islands, swimming; <br />bright its crown, the bird cherry swung where as a boy I wandered— <br /> <br />Silently it rains. The sky hangs low on <br />thin crowns. A whistling—the train sets off <br />again. Into slowly darkening evening, I travel friendless.<br /><br />Vilhelm Ekelund<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/then-were-the-beeches-bright/
