The Holy Time

(1)

Like timid girls the shades are pacing down
The slopes of evening, trailing soberly
Their vestments grey:

Far, far away,
The last, red tinge
Is fading into brown;

So far!
So faint!
Seen but surmisingly!

And now the dusk of evening draws upon
That memory of light,
And light is gone!

(2)

The bee
Speeds
Home!

The beetle's
Wing of horn
Is booming by!

The darkness,
Every side,
Gathers around.

On air,
And sky,
And ground!

The trees
Sing on the darkness,
Far and wide,

In cadenced lift of leaves,
A tale of morn!
And the moon's circle,

Silver-faint, and thin,
Birds lovely on the earth:
— There is no sin!
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