By George Sterling

Slowly she wanders up the river sands,
    Faint on her brow the flush of lapsing day.
She comes with Silence from the twilight lands,
    And smiles to think the dawn so far away.

Day's fragrance lingers round her. In her hair
    Are tiny lilies trembling lest they die;
And Sleep, her child, is near, who has in care
    The weariness of worlds. The ceaseless cry

Of timid voices that the day had stilled
    Comes to her wandering. Are those her eyes
That greaten with the dew, as if tear-filled,
    Or lowly stars awaking in the skies'?

I shall not hear until mine evening come,
    And flower-shadows fall across my grave,
The gentler voices that the day made dumb,
    Nor hold the plenitude of peace I crave

Bibliography Entry