Then were the beeches bright, then was the stream
strewn with white buttercup islands, swimming;
bright its crown, the bird cherry swung where as a boy I wandered—

Silently it rains. The sky hangs low on
thin crowns. A whistling—the train sets off
again. Into slowly darkening evening, I travel friendless.

Vilhelm Ekelund

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/then-were-the-beeches-bright/