Ode to Evening

1313

ODE TO EVENING

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,
May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,
Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs and dying gales;

O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,
With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed:

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return!

For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day,

And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge,
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car:

Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile,
Or upland fallows gray
Reflect its last cool gleam.

Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut
That, from the mountain's side,

Views wilds and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all
Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While Spring shall pour his showers, as of the wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!
While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves,
Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,
Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes:

So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And hymn thy favorite name!

William Collins (1721-1759]

"IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING, CALM AND FREE"

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in his tranquility;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea;.

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder-everlastingly,

Dear Child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

Evening Melody

1315

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
William Wordsworth [1770-1850]

GLOAMING

SKIES to the West are stained with madder;
Amber light on the rare blue hills;

The sough of the pines is growing sadder;
From the meadow-lands sound the whippoorwills.
Air is sweet with the breath of clover;
Dusk is on, and the day is over.

Skies to the East are streaked with golden;
Tremulous light on the darkening pond;
Glow-worms pale, to the dark beholden;
Twitterings hush in the hedge beyond.

I

Air is sweet with the breath of clover;
Silver the hills where the moon climbs over.
Robert Adger Bowen [1868-

EVENING MELODY

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”

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 Ọ the miracle, the miracle is the same.

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.

Zoë Akins (1886

SONG TO THE EVENING STAR

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,