Here you will find the Poem Evening. of poet Robert Crawford
The light is drawn out of the leaves and grass, And the sweet flowers grow pale in the gray air, As if their beauty's essence e'en did pass With the departing light from all things fair, As the sap in the trees when summer's fled Draws back to the earth, leaving the leaves dead. The sky becomes a cloud, the hills a shade, As the mysterious darkness fills the sphere, A monstrous elf whose tentacles are laid In silence upon all things far and near; Now the bats flit about the mothy damp In which the spiders weave their airy camp. I, too, could fill as 'twere a dreamy bed Under the green leaves in the darkness now, And watch the evening planet overhead Like a dewdrop upon the airy bough Of heaven tremble ? till my soul too grew Like liquid light in water, shining through. And I can feel that which the dead inherit ? Peace, and the power to forego the pain That like a vulture on the human spirit Draws its fine essence from the fading brain, Till every sense contracts, and the slow breath Oozes away in the desire of death. So from me slips the day's disquietude, And I am made one with the night, as those Who pass from thought into a faery mood On Lethe's wharf, whenas old Charon goes Into the dusk of that eternal eve Where all must go when the earth-light they leave.
