THE day was dead, with requiems of the wind; Black grew the sunset hills against a flush Of cold, clear yellow, and the air was lush With scents the sunny noon had left behind. Day's homeliest sights turned mystical, refined Within the half-light. Solemn, slow, night's hush Came on, soft thridden where a hidden thrush Vented dim notes that spake a dreamful mind. A sense of loneliness fell on the earth, The sky seemed tranced in meditation, rest, Or brooded fears of winter and his dearth; A slender moon stole out upon the west, A sickle keen that reaped the single star That shines for lovers, wheresoe'er they are. |