The Evening Comes
The evening comes: the boatman lifts the net, Poles his canoe and leaves it on the shore; So low the stream he does not use the oar; The umber rocks rise like a parapet Up through the purple and the violet, And the faint-heard and never-ending roar Of moving waters lessens more and more, While each vague object looms a silhouette. The light is going; but low overhead Poises the glory of the evening star; The fisher, silent on the rocky bar, Drops a still line in pools of fading red; And in the sky, where all the day lies dead, Slowly the golden crescent sinks afar.
Lloyd Mifflin’s other poems:
