Evening
A golden evening, when the thoughtful sun
Rejects its usual pomp in going, trees
That bend down to their green companion
And fruitful mother, vaguely whispering—these
And a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God,
Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.
Rejects its usual pomp in going, trees
That bend down to their green companion
And fruitful mother, vaguely whispering—these
And a wide silent sea. Such hour is nearest God,
Like rich old age when the long ways have all been trod.
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