NIGHT.
By CHARLES GRINDROD.
The sunset fades into a common glow:
A deeper shadow all the valley fills:
The trees are ghostlier in the fields below:
The river runs more darkly through the hills:
Only the Night-bird’s voice the coppice thrills,
Stirring the very leaves into a sense.
A witching stillness holds the breath of things.
Earth has put on her garb of reverence,
As when a nun within a cloister sings
To mourn a passing soul before it wings.
Silent as dew now falls the straight-winged Night.
Clear overhead (God’s still imaginings),
Shining like Hope, through very darkness bright,
Star follows star, till heaven is all alight.
