"Evening"

Evening—and through the trees
Moon sheds her light.
Spirit why lingerest
thou Still in thy night?

Leave thy earth's cloying bed—
Leave all decay;
Pass where the moon doth shed
Her luring ray,

There where a peace enfolds
In harmony,
All that no finite holds
Of mystery.

"Spike," 1918.

—Edith R. Davies.

"The Old Clay Patch," 1920.