Still audible, far off, is the evening train. –
A farmer, blue against green corn, at work.
Heath. Above woods the tower of a church.
Quiet reigns – the railway track its prime domain.
Five lines of telegraph wires seem to trail
a stave; the clef – that birch tree can suffice;
the notes are swallows, black against red skies,
with stems and flags formed by their fine, long tails.
And from their beech-tree platform blackbirds sing
melodies with a Mendelssohnian ring;
the nightingale will start his nocturnes soon:
and, to remind him to call loud and clear
when his song gains its climax, there appears,
as skewed point-d’orgue, the crescent of the moon.