IT is the hover-time
That comes between the light and dark.
The little squirrels climb
Into their nests in trees and hark
To rustly leaves about.
Far off, I hear new insect cries—
From things which never dare call out
In daytime: they're afraid of Eyes.
Out from the purply wood
The first bat circles on the fly.
Far things draw on a hood
And shadows hide the place where sky
And earth make dim their line.
The trees change shape, and soon the gray
Blurs into black; and that's the hour
When dark comes down to stay.