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Ode to Evening
ODE TO EVENING
IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
Like thy own solemn springs,
O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
Or where the beetle winds
As oft he rises, ʼmidst the twilight path
Now teach me, maid composed,
Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
As, musing slow, I hail
For when thy folding-star arising shows
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Or upland fallows gray
Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
That, from the mountain's side,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
Thy dewy fingers draw
While Spring shall pour his showers, as of the wont,
While Summer loves to sport
While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Affrights thy shrinking train,
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,
Thy gentlest influence own,
William Collins (1721-1759]
“IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE"
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)
SKIES to the West are stained with madder;
Air is sweet with the breath of clover;
Skies to the East are streaked with golden;
Air is sweet with the breath of clover;
Robert Adger Bowen (1868–
O THAT the pines which crown yon steep
Their fires might ne'er surrender! O that yon fervid knoll might keep,
While lasts the world, its splendor!
Pale poplars on the breeze that lean,
And in the sunset shiver,
For aye yon glassy river!
That yon white bird on homeward wing
Soft-sliding without motion, And now in blue air vanishing
Like snow-flake lost in ocean,
Beyond our sight might never flee,
Yet forward still be flying;
Immortal in its dying!
Pellucid thus in saintly trance,
Thus mute in expectation,
Ah no! Transfiguration!
She dreams of that “New Earth” divine,
Conceived of seed immortal;
Aubrey Thomas de Vere (1814-1902]
“IN THE COOL OF THE EVENING”
In the cool of the evening, when the low sweet whispers
waken, When the laborers turn them homeward, and the weary
have their will, When the censers of the roses o’er the forest aisles are
shaken, Is it but the wind that cometh o'er the far green hill?
For they say 'tis but the sunset winds that wander through
the heather, Rustle all the meadow-grass and bend the dewy fern; They say 'tis but the winds that bow the reeds in prayer
together, And fill the shaken pools with fire along the shadowy
In the beauty of the twilight, in the Garden that He loveth, They have veiled His lovely vesture with the darkness of
a name! Through His Garden, through His Garden, it is but the wind
that moveth, No more! But O the miracle, the miracle is the same.
In the cool of the evening, when the sky is an old story, Slowly dying, but remembered, ay, and loved with pas
sion still .. Hush! ... the fringes of His garment, in the fading golden
glory Softly rustling as He cometh o'er the far green hill.
Alfred Noyes (1880–
SPIRIT of Twilight, through your folded wings
I catch a glimpse of your averted face, And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings
“Is not this common earth a holy place?”
Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song
That sleeps, and waits a singer, like a hymn That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long,
Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim.
Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom
Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found A woman sitting in a silent room
Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound.
These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all,
And the room's name is Mystery where you sit, Woman whom we call Twilight, when night's pall You lift across our Earth to cover it.
Olive Custance (18
Oh the grave and gloomy quiet at the closing of the day!
When the sun has long gone down,
Not in splendors of his own,
With a wraith of filmy cloud,
Creased and wrinkled, to enshroud All the glow that he should give us at the closing of the day.