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Oh the stern and stolid quiet at the closing of the day!
When the purple furrows gleam
Cold and steely, and the team
not in may;
And the autumn rains begun,
Oh the dim and solemn quiet at the closing of the day!
When the leaves are dropping slow,
And the wet birds come and go Through the hedges, and white winter is already on its way;
When the smoke of smouldering tares,
Loosely borne on lagging airs, Frets the nostrils with its savor, at the closing of the day.
Oh the grim and ghostly quiet at the closing of the day!
When the cattle cease to move,
And the trees stand close, above,
Finds a sadness like its own
Arthur Joseph Munby (1828–1910]
SONG TO THE EVENING STAR
STAR that bringest home the bee,
That send'st it from above,
Are sweet as hers we love.
Come to the luxuriant skies,
Song: To Cynthia
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard
And songs when toil is done,
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews,
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Thomas Campbell (1777-1844]
THE EVENING CLOUD
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
O’er the still radiance of the lake below. Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow!
Even in its very motion there was rest; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
Right onwards to the golden gates of heaven,
John Wilson (1785-1854)
SONG: TO CYNTHIA
From “Cynthia's Revels”
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Bless us then with wished sight,
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
Thou that mak’st a day of night,
Ben Jonson (1573?-1637]
All that I know
Of a certain star
(Like the angled spar)
Now a dart of blue,
They would fain see, too,
They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it.
Robert Browning (1812–1889]
The sun descending in the West,
The moon, like a flower
Farewell, green fields and happy grove,
Unseen, they pour blessing,
They look in every thoughtless nest,
If they see any weeping
When wolves and tigers howl for piey
But, if they rush dreadful,
And there the lion's ruddy eyes
Saying: “Wrath by His meekness,
“And now beside thee, bleating lamb,
For, washed in life's river,
William Blake (1757-1827]
SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;
I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
“Would'st thou me?". Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee,