Twilight

From vales of dawn hath Day pursued the Night Who mocking fled, swift-sandalled, to the west, Nor ever lingered in her wayward flight With dusk-eyed glance to recompense his quest, But over crocus hills and meadows gray Sped fleetly on her way. Now when the Day, shorn of his failing strength, Hath fallen spent before the sunset bars, The fair, wild Night, with pity touched at length, Crowned with her chaplet of out-blossoming stars, Creeps back repentantly upon her way To kiss the dying Day.