  By CHARLES GRINDROD. The sunset fades into a common glow: A deeper shadow all the valley fills: The trees are ghostlier in the fields below: The river runs more darkly through the hills: Only the Night-bird’s voice the coppice thrills, Stirring the very leaves into a sense. A witching stillness holds the breath of things. Earth has put on her garb of reverence, As when a nun within a cloister sings To mourn a passing soul before it wings. Silent as dew now falls the straight-winged Night. Clear overhead (God’s still imaginings), Shining like Hope, through very darkness bright, Star follows star, till heaven is all alight. decorative line
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