Robert Bridges



                   Winter Nightfall


                   The day begins to droop, —
                     Its course is done:
                   But nothing tells the place
                     Of the setting sun.

                   The hazy darkness deepens,
                     And up the lane
                   You may hear, but cannot see,
                     The homing wain.

                   An engine pants and hums
                     In the farm hard by:
                   Its lowering smoke is lost
                     In the lowering sky.

                   The soaking branches drip,
                     And all night through
                   The dropping will not cease
                     In the avenue.

                   A tall man there in the house
                     Must keep his chair:
                   He knows he will never again
                     Breathe the spring air:

                   His heart is worn with work;
                     He is giddy and sick
                   If he rise to go as far
                     As the nearest rick:

                   He thinks of his morn of life,
                     His hale, strong years;
                   And braves as he may the night
                     Of darkness and tears.


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