An Evening

written by

« Reload image

TO break the stillness of the hour  
 There is no sound, no voice, no stir;  
 Only the croak of frogs,—the whirr  
Of crickets hidden in leaf and flower.  

The clear-cut outlines of a spire  
 Spring from a mass of eucalypt  
 Sharply against the sky,—still tipped  
With one last gleam of lingering fire.  

So solemnly the shadows creep;  
 On dovelike wings Night flutters down;  
 Lights twinkle in the little town;  
The valley lies in quiet sleep.  

So comes the dark, so fades the light,  
 On all those leagues of tossing sea  
 That lie between my home and me,  
And glimmer to the stars all night.  

And so, belovèd, silently  
 In thine own land the shadows fall  
 On grassy lawn, and garden-wall,  
On shining sand, and troubled sea,—  

On paths thy feet shall never tread,—  
 On fields thine eyes shall never see,—  
 And on thy new home, strange to me,  
That silent City of the Dead!  

Yea, stillness rests, O Tried and True,  
 On hand and heart, on lips and eyes!  
 On thee eternal silence lies,  
On thee is utter darkness too.  

We lost too much in losing thee,  
 Yet we who knew and loved thee best,  
 Wish thee an everlasting rest,  
Night came on thee so quietly.  

Peace with the Shadows! Peace to all  
 Who work and weep, who pray and wait;  
 Till we and thou are one with Fate,  
And on us too, the Night shall fall!

© Dora Wilcox