The silver mist more lowly swims
And each green bosomed valley dims
And o'er the neighbouring meadow lies
Like half seen visions by dim eyes
Green trees look grey, bright waters black
The lated crow has lost her track
And flies by guess her journey home.

She flops along and cannot see
Her peaceful nest on odlin tree
The lark drops down and cannot meet
The taller black grown clumps of wheat
The mists that rise from heat of day
Fades field and meadow all away.