Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/34

Rh For, when the sun is over-brimming Heaven’s chalice of profoundest blue, The downs run o’er with rapture, too; Their russet cup hath a golden rimming, And Glory swings in the grass like dew:

But the grey clouds, with their daylong weeping Droop o’er lonely stretches vast With mute mournfulness o’ercast— Till Comfort on amber wings comes leaping Out of the evening sky at last:

And when, thro’ folds of violet cloud Steals forth a vague pathetic sense, Like some hid grief’s half-evidence, The downs, like one to patience vow’d Wait, in a sober, meek suspense:—