At Dusk

By George Sterling

Eve, and the stainèd pinions of the day,
    Far-sinking as an eagle to her nest
    On some encrimsoned isle beyond the West.
But o'er thy distant and imagined way
I know the stars inexorable lay
    Their spell upon the night, the night unblest
    That bars me from the haven of thy breast.
And all the joy my soul would swoon to say.

Oh! sad as morning fled or twilight come
    The weeks and days that part my lips from thine,
Whose murmurs hold the chords of Eden dumb,
        As now in memory's regretful night
    I build and enter an enchanted shrine—
        Thy voice its music and thy face its light!


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