With bars of beaten brass and amethyst,

Evening hath shut the crimson sun within

A pasturage, where fleecy cloud-flocks win

Uncertain nurture from pelagian mist,

The singing of a feathered rhapsodist

Sounds from the darkening wood: O Night begin!

Bright pageant of the stars, come, usher in

The hour when Peace, a potent exorcist,

Casts out the turbulence and fret of day.

Now as the last faint bird notes die away,

And sunset’s glory fades from out the west,

Cometh an angel and his name is Rest.

On white dream wings I soar away with him,

Farewell, O Earth; farewell, O twilight dim!

Mary Grant O’Sheridan.