AFTER SUNSET.
The sun has set, the sky is calm,
And yonder uplands dim,
With all the little trees, stand out
A sharp and fringe-like rim.
A roll of clouds like indigo
Hangs in the lower sky,
All edged above with crimson fire,
And piled up gloriously.
And far behind are flakes and flaws,
And streaks of purest red;
And feathery dashes, paling slow,
Still linger overhead.
And far, far off—how far it looks!—
The sky is green and clear,
And still in front a little flight
Of black clouds saileth near.
Oh! wondrous sight! oh! joyous hour!
Ye workmen passing by,
Why stay ye not your boisterous mirth
To gaze upon the sky?
Ye merry children playing near,
Why stop ye not your play,
To see how God with glory crowns
The closing of the day?
Oh! would that they whose weary minds
The things of sense enthral,
Upon whose lives but scanty rays
Of grace and beauty fall,—
Would that they knew what noble store
Of purest joy and love
Is given to bless the poor man’s lot,
And lift his heart above.
