The Whistle Maker and Other Poems/The Coming Night
(From the Berkeley Hills)
The shining clouds hang pendant
Along the winding lea;
The sun stands out resplendent
Above the tranquil sea.
The western wind moves softly,
Waving the tender grass,
The trees more staid and lofty
Scarce bend to let it pass.
The cattle down the hillside,
Move slowly, homeward bent:
Cooing doves and mates in pride
Breathe out their sweet content.
Far beyond, the sea-gulls fly
With curving, measured sweep;
Swallows playing, dot the sky;
The world prepares for sleep.
I turn, the sun more splendid,
Bathes land and sea in gold;
A thousand colors blended,
Toward the hills are rolled.
There, amethyst and violet,
Where green and brown held sway
With scarlet, form a triolet
To deck the dying day.
Down sinks the sun—the monarch
Of all this glorious show;
Clouds once brilliant, now are dark
And all is hushed below.
Uplifted heart and outstretched hand
Bid farewell to the sight;
I speed my steps to lower land
And bless the coming night.
Feb. 8, 1913.