This page needs to be proofread.
1 34 POEMS.
��XXVIII. THE COMING OF NIGHT.
T T OW the old mountains drip with sunset,
- * And the brake of dun !
How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel By the wizard sun !
How the old steeples hand the scarlet,
Till the ball is full, Have I the lip of the flamingo
That I dare to tell ?
Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,
Touching all the grass With a departing, sapphire feature,
As if a duchess pass !
How a small dusk crawls on the village
Till the houses blot ; And the odd flambeaux no men carry
Glimmer on the spot !
�� �
