EVENING
Sunset; and purple mist
Upon the mountain’s crest,
And pale blue trails of smoke that slowly twist
Into the West.
Soft airs that whisper “Rest,”
And sunset clouds of gold;
A bird’s low murmur from its hidden nest
Across the wold.
Red rose leaves falling, falling,
’Neath swiftly fading skies,
The faint, far voices of dead summers calling,
All ghostly-wise.
Twilight and darkening woods;
Smell of the dew-drenched sod;
And over all, while perfect silence broods,
The peace of God.
Allen Clark, Jr.