Here you will find the Poem Night. of poet Robert Crawford
The wings of Evening, spread like phantom sails Athwart the waning west, Now as the last thin streak of crimson fails, Seem as with sleep possessed. Now hope is changed to memory, and time Becomes eternity, As thought were chaunting to a runic rhyme In some old mystery. The shadows deepen, and the Night's weird stir Seems like a spirit still To tremble in the silence, as with her Death walked invisible. The heart can ken, e'en like an echo dead, The eerie things they say Who have come from a coast where none may tread Within the dream of Day. Night and her paramour ? the last of things That touch the soul with fear, As that which deems that it is deathless clings To its own shadow here.
