At Nightfall

SUNK is the sun behind the western trees,
And the long shadows melt into the dusk ;
The garden Fdowers look palely through hushed leaves,
Freighting the air with heavy-scented sweets.
Now falls the night, down sifting through the air
Lulled waftures of soft-dropping silences;
And slumber-breathing darkness shrouds thine eyes.
The idle hands lie folded in the lap,
Forgetting the long travail of the day ;
The playthings we call work are all put by;
And all the rankling of the bitter world,
Like a dull snake, coils up itself to sleep;
And peace falls, like a dutter of white doves.
For sin, and pain, and passion, and all ills
That tear the unshielded weakness of our souls,
The power that bids us suffer gives us sleep ;
And he that says he has no faith lies down
And in all faith resigns his soul to sleep.
Sure of the morning and the light again,
Forth ebbs the soul upon the tide of dreams.
And all alike are folded in one love ;
And all alike are guided by one will;
And on each heart fall the cool dews of rest.
Love, thou art weary, and thine eyes are wet —
Albert Phelps.