  Softly the tints of expiring day Tinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven, Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow ray To escort the shadows of even. All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn, Yet his splendor has left to sight A trail of enchantment to linger till dawn, To charm the still hours of the night. Scenes of such cloud-land often reveal A grandeur that augments the soul; Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal, No secrets inscribed on its scroll. Through the earth for an age we may roam, And through space our vision may fly, Yet no pleasure is like that at home When we gaze on a God-painted sky. When we think of the forces displayed To prepare for a cloud-scene at even, Of the elements deftly arrayed That a gorgeous effect may be given, Of the mists and the winds and the light, Of the blendings that art cannot teach, Of the mysteries hidden from sight That our knowledge would gladly reach, Of the order, the purpose, design, In the pictures that hang in the sky, We know that the hand is divine That arranged all their brilliancy, Then our faith lifts the curtain that hides The Spirit that ordered the plan, And assures us He ever abides To encourage and elevate man. At sunset my spirit shall sing Of the beauties the elements yield, Let my heart then its off'ring bring To the Artist of sky and of field. When my soul from its dwelling of clay, Shall escape to that unknown sphere, May it be at the close of the day, When the glories of sunset appear. Soothingly, sweetly comes unto me The thought that my soul may rest, In a land whose glory shall be Like cloud-scenes that glow in the west. |
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