Dusk at the Lake’s Edge
T
HIS tiny inland sea is splashed with gold
And mauve and crimson as the late light
spills
Its wild and ardent coloring; a bold
Frog croaks its call, a late bird fills
The air with tremulous cries, the insects skate,
Leaving long slender arrows spreading far;
The water lilies face the sky and wait
The silent coming of the evening star.
I who have been tired have found rest
Here at the lake’s edge, watching the night come
down,
Watching the high fires dying in the west,
A quiet settling miles from any town;
And I shall go back to the thunder of the street,
But with braver heart, and steadier hands and feet.
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