In the still evening, when with rapid flight,
Low in the western sky the sun descends
To give expectant nations life and light,
The aged pilgrim, in some clime unknown,
Slow journeying, right onward fearful bends
With weary haste, a stranger and alone;
Yet, when his labor ends,
He solitary sleeps.
And in short slumber steeps
Each sense of sorrow hanging on the day,