AT morn I saw the level plain
So rich and small beneath my feet, A sapphire sea, without a stain, And fields of golden-waving wheat ; Lingering, I said, "At noon I'll be At peace by that sweet-scented tide.
How far, how fair my course shall be, Before I come to the eventide ! "
Where is it fled, that radiant plain P I stumble now in miry ways ; Dark clouds drift landward, big with rain, And lonely moors their summits raise.
On, on, with hurrying feet I range, And left and right in the dumb hillside, Grey valleys open, drear and strange ;— And so I come to the eventide!
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON.