The day begins to droop,-- <br />Its course is done: <br />But nothing tells the place <br />Of the setting sun. <br />The hazy darkness deepens, <br />And up the lane <br />You may hear, but cannot see, <br />The homing wain. <br />An engine pants and hums <br />In the farm hard by: <br />Its lowering smoke is lost <br />In the lowering sky. <br />The soaking branches drip, <br />And all night through <br />The dropping will not cease <br />In the avenue. <br />A tall man there in the house <br />Must keep his chair: <br />He knows he will never again <br />Breathe the spring air: <br />His heart is worn with work; <br />He is giddy and sick <br />If he rise to go as far <br />As the nearest rick: <br />He thinks of his morn of life, <br />His hale, strong years; <br />And braves as he may the night <br />Of darkness and tears.<br /><br />Robert Seymour Bridges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-nightfall/
