From this windy bridge at rest, <br />In some former curious hour, <br />We have watched the city's hue, <br />All along the orange west, <br />Cupola and pointed tower, <br />Darken into solid blue. <br /> <br />Tho' the biting north wind breaks <br />Full across this drifted hold, <br />Let us stand with iced cheeks <br />Watching westward as of old; <br /> <br />Past the violet mountain-head <br />To the farthest fringe of pine, <br />Where far off the purple-red <br />Narrows to a dusky line, <br />And the last pale splendours die <br />Slowly from the olive sky; <br /> <br />Till the thin clouds wear away <br />Into threads of purple-gray, <br />And the sudden stars between <br />Brighten in the pallid green; <br /> <br />Till above the spacious east, <br />Slow returned one by one, <br />Like pale prisoners released <br />From the dungeons of the sun, <br />Capella and her train appear <br />In the glittering Charioteer; <br /> <br />Till the rounded moon shall grow <br />Great above the eastern snow, <br />Shining into burnished gold; <br />And the silver earth outrolled, <br />In the misty yellow light, <br />Shall take on the width of night.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunset-96/
