The banners of the sunset are too bright;
Fairer the after-hour
When all the sky is flushed by fainter light
To a mysterious flower.
These robin troubadours are shrill as pain;
Sweeter the vespers where
Some thistle-bird lets slip a drowsy strain
Soft as a baby's prayer.

Let Aspiration fold her wings to-night,
Those shining wings forspent,
And sit with Peace before the ember-light
In sisterly content.
Let Love be gentle as old friendliness,
Nor Sorrow overmuch
Perturb the heart, that knows like a caress
Her long-accustomed touch.