The frightened herds of clouds across the sky <br />Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day <br />Into the dusky forest-lands of gray <br />And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high, <br />The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry <br />Sad as the wail of some poor castaway <br />Who sees a vessel drifting far astray <br />Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. <br />The children, riotous from school, grow bold <br />And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust <br />Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold <br />Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust <br />In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold <br />Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dusk-30/
