THE day begins to droop,-- <br /> Its course is done: <br />But nothing tells the place <br /> Of the setting sun. <br /> <br />The hazy darkness deepens, <br /> And up the lane <br />You may hear, but cannot see, <br /> The homing wain. <br /> <br />An engine pants and hums <br /> In the farm hard by: <br />Its lowering smoke is lost <br /> In the lowering sky. <br /> <br />The soaking branches drip, <br /> And all night through <br />The dropping will not cease <br /> In the avenue. <br /> <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 /> <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 /> <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 Bridges<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-nightfall-2/
