Now is the healing, quiet hour that fills <br /> This gay, green world with peace and grateful rest. <br />Where lately over opalescent hills <br /> The blood of slain Day reddened all the west, <br /> Now comes at Night's behest, <br />A glow that over all the forest spills, <br />As with the gold of promised daffodils. <br /> Of all hours this is best. <br /> <br /> <br />It is time for thoughts of holy things, <br /> Of half-forgotten friends and one's own folk. <br />O'er all, the garden-scented sweetness clings <br /> To mingle with the wood fire's drifting smoke. <br /> A bull-frog's startled croak <br />Sounds from the gully where the last bird sings <br />His laggard vesper hymn, with folded wings; <br /> And night spreads forth her cloak. <br /> <br /> <br />Keeping their vigil where the great range yearns, <br /> Like rigid sentries stand the wise old gums. <br />On blundering wings a night-moth wheels and turns <br /> And lumbers on, mingling its drowsy hums <br /> With that far roll of drums, <br />Where the swift creek goes tumbling amidst the ferns... <br />Now, as the first star in the zenith burns, <br /> The dear, soft darkness comes.<br /><br />Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dusk-39/
