Evening comes,
	Not in a rush of joy
	As birth, nor unawares
	And silent, as the ebb of life;
	Evening comes content,
	Soft and splendid
	As a lover's smile.
	I sit me down
	Among the willows green
	To think at even,
	Or perchance, to dream--
	Twilight thoughts
	Made of wind and rain,
	Webs of silk, dewdrops
	And shiny buttercups.
	Beneath the hill
	Rolls the river, serene and gold.
	In its current
	Drift the broken trees of Time,
	Aimless wanderers, yet borne
	Surely to their appointed end,
	The Sea, blue and silver-green.
	But even there,
	Riding the crests of foam and spray,
	Free and unabashed,
	Is it not possible
	That those selfsame twigs and limbs
	May have a further course
	To run,
	Ere they sink in oblivion
	To some vast end
	We cannot perceive
	And less understand?
	Is not life much the same?
	The swirling clouds
	Settle in the western skies,
	Taking up all the colors of joy
	Poured forth each day
	By our star, the sun,
	Who dies a little,
	That we may live.
	Red, orange, yellow, smokey brown
	And grey; amber and Prussian blue,
	The pink of crocodiles
	All mingle ever-changing
	But still one and the same.
	Gentle breezes brush
	The willow twigs,
	Making a eager, rushing sound.
	Cool is the evening air;
	Cool are my face and thoughts
	As they wander from hill to hill,
	Stopping at every pleasant,
	Curious bloom or stone,
	Wishing to know
	What ancient cause or Power
	Made animate each,
	But finding no answer there.
	The sun sinks faster now,
	Or so it seems;
	Shadows creep up the hills,
	The clouds grow old and dark.
	A star appears
	In the fading west.
	I go
	To await the morrow
	And its singing birds.


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