The wings of Evening, spread like phantom sails <br />Athwart the waning west, <br />Now as the last thin streak of crimson fails, <br />Seem as with sleep possessed. <br />Now hope is changed to memory, and time <br />Becomes eternity, <br />As thought were chaunting to a runic rhyme <br />In some old mystery. <br />The shadows deepen, and the Night's weird stir <br />Seems like a spirit still <br />To tremble in the silence, as with her <br />Death walked invisible. <br />The heart can ken, e'en like an echo dead, <br />The eerie things they say <br />Who have come from a coast where none may tread <br />Within the dream of Day. <br />Night and her paramour — the last of things <br />That touch the soul with fear, <br />As that which deems that it is deathless clings <br />To its own shadow here.<br /><br />Robert Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-166/
