After Sunset
Carved in dull ebony, one somber row
Of straight palms, etched in sudden, sharp relief,
Against a molten-copper afterglow....
Oh, Hour of Enchantment, past belief,
When down the garden paths the peacocks go,
In plumed splendor and with stately tread.
Across the shadowed valleys cool winds blow,
From where the smoke-blue mountain rears its head.
Beyond the world's rim, slips the ghost-wan Day,
To draw Night's curtain close about her bed
And set a star to light her to her rest,
While Evening, shaking free her dusky hair,
Lures every weary bird to seek its nest,
And, kissing shut the tired eyes of care,
Lulls Earth to peace upon her gentle breast.
"I didn't mean you to know," I said, as he took the verse away from me again and put it back in his pocket.
"But you told Wright," said he.
"That was different," I answered, firmly.
"Mad?"
"N-No!"
He slipped his arm around me.
"Mavis," he said very softly, "Mavis with the amber hair and the deep brown eyes. Mavis, child and poet and—all mine."
"You're not laughing?" I asked anxiously. "I mean, about the verses?"