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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