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- The Home Book of Verse, Volume 3 - 6/88 -

Tremulous light on the darkening pond; Glow-worms pale, to the dark beholden; Twitterings hush in the hedge beyond. Air is sweet with the breath of clover; Silver the hills where the moon climbs over.

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, O that your golden stems might screen 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; And all the dying day might be Immortal in its dying!

Pellucid thus in saintly trance, Thus mute in expectation, What waits the earth? Deliverance? Ah no! Transfiguration!

She dreams of that "New Earth" divine, Conceived of seed immortal; She sings "Not mine the holier shrine, Yet mine the steps and portal!"

Aubrey Thomas de Vere [1814-1902]


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 burn.

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 passion 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 [1874-


The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, As lightly and as free, Ten thousand stars were in the sky, Ten thousand on the sea; For every wave, with dimpled face, That leaped upon the air, Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there.

Amelia C. Welby [1819-1852]


I The ferries ply like shuttles in a loom, And many barques come in across the bay To lights and bells that signal through the gloom Of twilight gray;

And like the brown soft flutter of the snow The wide-winged sea-birds droop from closing skies, And hover near the water, circling low, As the day dies.

The city like a shadowed castle stands, Its turrets indistinctly touching night; Like earth-born stars far fetched from faerie lands, Its lamps are bright.

This is my hour, - when wonder springs anew To see the towers ascending, pale and high, And the long seaward distances of blue, And the dim sky.

II This is my hour, between the day and night; The sun has set and all the world is still, The afterglow upon the distant hill Is as a holy light.

This is my hour, between the sun and moon; The little stars are gathering in the sky, There is no sound but one bird's startled cry, - One note that ceases soon.

The gardens and, far off, the meadow-land, Are like the fading depths beneath a sea, While over waves of misty shadows we Drift onward, hand in hand.

This is my hour, that you have called your own; Its hushed beauty silently we share, - Touched by the wistful wonder in the air That leaves us so alone.

III In rain and twilight mist the city street, Hushed and half-hidden, might this instant be A dark canal beneath our balcony, Like one in Venice, Sweet.

The street-lights blossom, star-wise, one by one; A lofty tower the shadows have not hid Stands out - part column and part pyramid - Holy to look upon.

The dusk grows deeper, and on silver wings The twilight flutters like a weary gull Toward some sea-island, lost and beautiful, Where a sea-syren sings.

"This is my hour," you breathe with quiet lips; And filled with beauty, dreaming and devout, We sit in silence, while our thoughts go out - Like treasure-seeking ships.

Zoe Akins [1886-


Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary laborer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou art, Too delicious to be riven By absence from the heart.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

The Home Book of Verse, Volume 3 - 6/88

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