The Poet.

Now, with the evening at its brink,
I, of my fellow men,
Into the sunset's golden ink,
Dip this familiar pen,
To tell of towers in silhouette,
Of bronzed and burnished trees,
That this bright hour may linger yet
With day's philosophies.
There is no stir upon the lake,
Upon the sea no stain,
No lone bird in the reeds awake
To cry of certain rain.
No wind to creak the graven mill,
Frigid of sail and calm;
No hood of cloud above the hill,
No lightning to alarm …
Now, with the fated golden pen,
Now, while the ink is new,
I shall bestow on other men
This eve of bronze and blue;
This hour of fact and phantasy;
This cup of poet's wine,
That one day they may joy with me
And know such peace as mine.

—Winifred Tennant.

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