What country is this?-- this land of meadows
extending beyond the northernmost haze
and blue of distance, where untold hundreds
of cattle and wandering horses graze
or lie recumbent, resting their heads..,
while limpid swallows,
pursuing a langorous curve of the Thames,
encounter their own reflections, deftly
skimming the mirrored clouds, or swiftly
soaring in effortless tendrils and turns.
Skirting the shallow bank of the river
a pathway beckons, its wandering course
at intervals marked by immense cottonwoods
that tower above the land and disperse
abundance of cottony seed in clouds
with every shiver
or stirring of wind.., and all the while,
flotillas of billowing cumuli
in weightless serenity cross the sky,
as the long day eases, the hours lull.
Already to westward the sun recedes,
softening trees to a rouge, as varied
rays mellow slowly to rose and shadows
lengthen across the land. Unhurried,
a swan delves slowly among the shallows,
rooting in reeds,
dipping its beak where the river darkens...
Above the meadows, a lingering light
resists the violet stain of night--
eastward, a glimmering spire hearkens.
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