BY ALBERT PIKE.
———
It is the evening of a pleasant day
In these old woods. The sun profusely flings
His flood of light through every narrow way
That winds around the trees. His spirit clings,
In orange mist, around the snowy wings
Of many a patient cloud, that now, since noon,
Over the western mountains idly swings,
Waiting when night shall come—alas! too soon!