POETRY.
EVENING.
WEARY-FOOTED Eve, in what celestial orchards, Cool skyey gardens past the mountain's rim, Stray you while the sun blinks o'er the western ocean,
While sleep draws near you and the earth grows dim 'r
Gazing from afar we see the flying colours, Fiery blossoms pouring down a cloudy cape, Red of the rose and scarlet of the poppy, Gold of the crocus, purple of the grape.
Wasted drowsy Eve, where in the dusky hollows Stands your couch of ebon, whence as one new born, Fresh from the comfort of the Night's enfolding, Waked by the sun-shafts, you shall rise—the Morn? Lo far up in Heaven the faintly rosy fleeces, Lo the purple hangings of her bower and bed, Fringes of the mist, embroidered swaying tassels, Lo the golden stair whereon her feet shall tread!
WALTER HOGG
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