Evening

PALE cameo-colored fires across the west ;
Dun pastures, hushed ; a rim of darkling trees ;
One star that flickering hangs, as if the breeze
Swung it, a white-lit censer ; and deep rest
Muffled across Day’s struggling, teeming breast.
The very brook that sang its bubbly glees
Now draws its sleek length, quiet, and like black seas
The twilight floods sweep down with star-foamed crest.

Hark! I have heard the brown owl softly hoot:
Whom calls he through the dimness? — and again! —
Surely I hear a crystal-dripping flute
Answer his cry, as from dark dale and plain
Mist shapes unloose. Beat low, my heart, beat low,
Lest thy red drummings bid the wood gods go !