At Sunset

THERE comes a night, O dear and true!
Along the path that we pursue
Its shadow drinks the morning dew;
We see it creep
Across the living bloom we tread,
A thing too fugitive to dread,
And yet we weep —

Light tears for rainbow uses meet;
Half-fears, that quicken failing heat,
And prick our lazy bliss to sweet
Self-consciousness,
That else might sometimes in a trance,
Too prodigal of time and chance,
Forget to bless!

If in mid-heaven hung our sun,
If all our path were overrun
With flowers that missed the graces won
From shadows gray,
Beloved, thou mightst fail to keep
My feet from falling on the steep
And dusty way,

Nor always guard mine eyes from tears.
In the wide margin of those years
Where all the room for speech appears
That love doth crave,
The silent speech of hand to hand
Might be less dear, in that strange land
That had no grave.

Annie R. Annan.