I. <br />The sun is set; the swallows are asleep; <br />The bats are flitting fast in the gray air; <br />The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep, <br />And evening’s breath, wandering here and there <br />Over the quivering surface of the stream, <br />Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream. <br /> <br />II. <br />There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, <br />Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; <br />The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; <br />And in the inconstant motion of the breeze <br />The dust and straws are driven up and down, <br />And whirled about the pavement of the town. <br /> <br />III. <br />Within the surface of the fleeting river <br />The wrinkled image of the city lay, <br />Immovably unquiet, and forever <br />It trembles, but it never fades away; <br />Go to the... <br />You, being changed, will find it then as now. <br /> <br />IV. <br />The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shut <br />By darkest barriers of cinereous cloud, <br />Like mountain over mountain huddled--but <br />Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, <br />And over it a space of watery blue, <br />Which the keen evening star is shining through.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evening-ponte-al-mare-pisa/
