Evening Clouds

A LITTLE flock of clouds go down to rest

In some blue corner off the moon’s highway,

With shepherd-winds that shook them in the West

To borrowed shapes of earth, in bright array,

Perhaps to weave a rainbow’s gay festoons

Around the lonesome isle which Brooke has made

A little England full of lovely noons,

Or dot it with his country’s mountain shade.

Ah, little wanderers, when you reach that isle

Tell him, with dripping dew, they have not failed,

What he loved most; for late I roamed a while

Thro’ English fields and down her rivers sailed;

And they remember him with beauty caught

From old desires of Oriental Spring

Heard in his heart with singing overwrought;

And still on Purley Common gooseboys sing.