SUNSET.
Crimson and cloth-of-gold,
His cloud-couch, rarely wrought;—
To bower so beautiful
No bride was ever brought.
Save his,—of tender grace,—
Dear Twilight, faithful, fair,
On whose sweet lips he seeks
Surcease of toil and care.
O light ineffable!
Wonder of wood and wold;—
The vision and the pledge
Of rapture manifold.