While she, like jug or wheel, like a wagon cart Walked by lazy oxen along the old snowlanes, Creeps and crunches down the dusky street. High in the fire-red dooryard Half unhitched the sign of the Inn Hangs in wind Tipped to the pitch of the roof. Near it anonymous parents and peasant girl, Living like proverbs carved in the alehouse walls, Gather the country evening into their arms And lean to the glowing flames. And now the church, and then the walls and roofs Of all the little houses are become Close kin to shadow with small lantern eyes. With shadows streaming down from its gliding wings Circles the neighboring hills Of Hertogenbosch, Brabant.
Darkness stalks the hunters, Slowly sliding down, Falling in beating rings and soft diagonals.
Lodged in the vague vast valley the village sleeps. Several of his paintings treat the theme of a painting of a window placed in front of the window. Thank you for this link.