Sunset Wings

To-night this sunset spreads two golden wings

Cleaving the western sky;

Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings

Of birds; as if the day's last hour in rings

Of strenuous flight must die.

Sun-steeped in fire, the homeward pinions sway

Above the dovecote-tops;

And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day,

Sink, clamorous like mill-water, at wild play,

By turns in every copse:

Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives, --

Save for the whirr within,

You could not tell the starlings from the leaves;

Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves

Away with all its din.