EVENING IN THE CANYON.
The sun’s last beams kiss the mountain side,
At which it blushes like a bride;
A soft wave, from the earth’s warm breast,
Stirs in the pines and sinks to rest.
Far off a straying lambkin bleats,
Which pitying Echo soft repeats;
Anear the querulous, strident cries
That tell of insect lullabies.
Then long, grey shadows take command
And beckon with mysterious hand
Till falls a deep, expectant hush,
And then—the song of a single thrush.
The flowers and grasses bow the head,
Like children when their prayer is said,
While I with heart and soul rejoice
That a perfect day hath found its voice.
—M. E. Dissette.