Slowly she wanders up the river sands, <br />Faint on her brow the flush of lapsing day. <br />She comes with Silence from the twilight lands, <br />And smiles to think the dawn so far away. <br /> <br />Day's fragrance lingers round her. In her hair <br />Are tiny lilies trembling lest they die; <br />And Sleep, her child, is near, who has in care <br />The weariness of worlds. The ceaseless cry <br /> <br />Of timid voices that the day had stilled <br />Comes to her wandering. Are those her eyes <br />That greaten with the dew, as if tear-filled, <br />Or lowly stars awaking in the skies'? <br /> <br />I shall not hear until mine evening come, <br />And flower-shadows fall across my grave, <br />The gentler voices that the day made dumb, <br />Nor hold the plenitude of peace I crave.<br /><br />George Sterling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/evening-36/
