Saturday night: the sun is going down;
The purple light glows on the river’s breast,
Far in the east the dull clouds watch and frown,
Jealous of all the glory in the west;
The listless trees lean out along the shore
To watch their shadows lengthen down the tide;
And, far above us, slowly floating o’er,
The weary birds on homeward pinions glide.
The steamer, on the sand-bar fast asleep,
Tired with the week’s long labor, heavily lies;
Longer and longer still the shadows creep,
And evening mists from out the distance rise.
All things in peace and patience seem to wait,
As if in faith that, when the morning came,
The sun would once more light his golden gate
With all the glory of his entering flame.
