I heard the farm cocks crowing, loud, and faint, and thin, 
When hooded night was going and one clear planet winked: 
I heard shrill notes begin down the spired wood distinct, 
When cloudy shoals were chinked and gilt with fires of day. 
White-misted was the weald; the lawns were silver-grey;
The lark his lonely field for heaven had forsaken; 
And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of may, 
And touched the nodding peony-flowers to bid them waken.