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Across A West Lancashire Plain
As almost at its lowest, November’s light was lying;
In tangential shafts; the scenery betrayed
An old-time’s shire, its places sighing
Through every tree and hedge-stretched fingering shade;
This western plain’s and vale’s spectres of light
Pierced dun-green woods and coppice copper-clad,
Glinted the distant rails and pools all silver-bright
‘till every form its evening’s shadow had;
A warp and woof lay still of cambering field
In rank and drill converging to the sun!
Their granaries left worn fabric from their yield
In vesper-tine and sense of toil well done.
Are fiefdoms born in these autumnal skies?
See in their gloam all heavenly seas are blue
Eager the vassal eye to beauty flies
Where infants sleep in lemon-rose sweet hue.
Awake! Awake! ‘cross feudal fields and chase
To vistas flee where heaven and earth combine
Abandon all, though transient her embrace
Her ‘promise’ is celestial and sublime!
Such vespers these enchanting poet’s eyes;
All is prostrate, piquent and reposes:
Keep eyelids wide, too soon she closes