I am like one that has sat alone
All day on a level plain,
With drooping head and trailing arms
In a ceaseless pour of rain—
With drooping head and nerveless arms
On the moorland flat and gray,
Till the clouds were severed suddenly
About the end of day;
And the purple fringes of the rain
Rose o’er the scarlet west,
And the birds sang in the soddened furze,
And my heart sang in my breast.