TO-NIGHT this sunset spreads two golden wings Cleaving the western sky; Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings Of birds; as if the day's last hour in rings Of strenuous flight must die. Sun-steeped in fire, the homeward pinions sway Above the dovecote-tops; And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day, Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play, By turns in every copse: Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives,-- Save for the whirr within, You could not tell the starlings from the leaves; Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves Away with all its din. Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight, To many a refuge tend; With the first light she laughed, and the last light Glows round her still; who natheless in the night At length must make an end. And now the mustering rooks innumerable Together sail and soar, While for the day's death, like a tolling knell, Unto the heart they seem to cry, Farewell, No more, farewell, no more! Is Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart? And oh! thou dying day, Even as thou goest must she too depart, And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart As will not fly away? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MA LADY'S LIPS AM LIKE DE HONEY (NEGRO LOVE SONG) by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON L. OF G.'S PURPORT by WALT WHITMAN A DREAM, OR THE TYPE OF THE RISING SUN by JEAN ADAMS THE TRUE LOVE-KNOTT by JOSEPH BEAUMONT FROM A PRAIRIE by BEATRICE BRISSMAN |