By George Sterling

Pure and argent, westward far,
Burns a solitary star,
    Trembling as in doubt
If to linger, if to go.
    Now the blunt-faced owls are out,
Soft of wing as falling snow.

Now the moth awakes to be
Part of the evening's sorcery—
    White as firstling foam.
'Ware thee, witch's butterfly!
    Dryad mists from woodlands roam
On her hidden rites to spy.

Feel ye not the twilight-awe ?
Youngest things more closely draw
    To the mother-breast:
That shall never more betray.
    Now ye know, who sought for rest,
Why ye found it not in day.

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