To Twilight

By George Sterling

            Linger, we pray,
Shy mother of the white and earliest star!
        For in thy keeping are
    The Dreams that suffer not the light of day—
Dim presences, that find us from afar.

            O soundless feet,
Between the night and sunset hesitant !
        The cricket's eager chant
    And voice of some faint bell, remotely sweet,
Alone await thee, clear and consonant.

            Sing to thyself
A song as pure, as low, as delicate,
        Ere music seem too late,
    Or yet the moonray seek the hidden elf,
Or mute, the night fall un compassionate.

            We shall not hear;
But in the heart an echo swiftly flown
        Shall touch us from thine own,
    And voices of the past, forlorn and clear,
Shall haunt us from, the days that love has known. . . .

             So hast thou come,
Whose benediction ceases not for night,
        To close the gates of light,
    And tell, from fields for thee a moment dumb,
That age-old pain, of Beauty and her flight.

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