238 EVENING EVENING
That golden key,
That opes the palace of eternity.
| author = Milton
| work = Comas. L. 13.
(Eternity) a moment standing still for ever.
Jambs Montgomery.
This speck of life in time's great wilderness
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless seas,
The past, the future, two eternities!
Moohe—Latta Rookh. The Veiled Prophet of
Khorassan. St. 42.
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| text = <poem>Those spacious regions where our fancies roam,
Pain'd by the past, expecting ills to come,
In some dread moment, by the fates assign'd,
Shall pass away, nor leave a rack behind;
And Time's revolving wheels shall lose at last
The speed that spins the future and the past:
And, sovereign of an undisputed throne,
Awful eternity shall reign alone.
Petrarch—Triumph of Eternity. L. 102.
The time will come when every change shall
cease,
This quick revolving wheel shall rest in peace:
No summer then shall glow, nor winter freeze;
Nothing shall be to come, and nothing past,
But an eternal now shall ever last.
Petrarch—Triumph of Eternity. L. 117.
Was man von der Minute ausgeschlagen
Gibt keine Ewigkeit zuriick.
Eternity gives nothing back of what one
leaves out of the minutes.
Schiller—Resignation. St. 18.
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow.
Shelley—Adonais. XXX.
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| text = Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.
Shelley—Adonais. LII.
In time there is no present,
In eternity no future,
In eternity no past.
| author = Tennyson
| work = The "How" and "Why."
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Young—Night Thoughts. Night I. L. 66.
li
EVENING
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill
And nought but the nightingale's song in the
grove.
James Beattie—Hermit.
And whiter grows the foam,
The small moon lightens more;
And as I turn me home,
My shadow walks before.
Robert Bridges—The Clouds have left the Sky.
To me at least was never evening yet
But seemed far beautifuller than its day.
Robert Browning—The Ring and the Book.
PompUia. L. 357.
Hath thy heart within thee burned,
At evening's calm and holy hour?
S. G. Bulftnch—Meditation.
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure.
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
| author = Byron
| work = Parisina. St. 1.
When day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to glow
Along the western blue;
And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
Then comes the hour the poet loves.
George Croly—The Poet's Hour.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Gray—Elegy in a Country Churchyard.
("Herd wind" in 1753 ed. "Knell of parting day" taken from Dante.}})
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| text = <poem>Day hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
HolmesHow gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles st«red.
Jean Ingelow—Supper at the Mill.
But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
And one by one to earth reveals
Those purer fires on high.
Keble—The Christian Year. Fourth Sunday
After Trinity.
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the
western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped
down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Hyperion. Bk. IV. Ch. V.
Now came still evening on; and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad:
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
| author = Milton
| work = Paradise Lost.
| place = Bk. IV. L. 598.
