Early Nightfall

The pale day drowses on the western steep; The toiler faints along the marge of sleep Within the sunset-press, incarnadine, The sun, a peasant, tramples out his wine. Ah, scattered gold rests on the twilight streams; The poppy opes her scarlet purse of dreams. Night with the sickle-moon engarners wheat, And binds the sheaves of stars beneath her feet. Rest, weary heart, and every flight-worn bird! The brooklet of the meadow lies unstirred. Sleep, every soul, against a comrade breast! God grant you peace, and guard you in your rest!