Tankle-Tinkle-Tank

The rector's attic window is a light, Set high on shelf for all the folk to see ; His garden's windy-dim as it can be, Where grow tall flags, some purple and some white. The next house, too, holds one pane clearly red; Three roofs beyond, the vane's a rosy flare; Milk-heavy, slow, through the exquisite air, The cows go tankling-tinkling to the shed. Lost loveliness is broken down the wind; Lost laughters fleet along the blur of wall; — The cows go tankling to the barnyard near; — And cloudy-pale, the shaken flowers behind, The rector sees, through tears that aching fall, His little daughter, dead this many a year.