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So finely tuned is the eye to the change,
it noticed; and it was no miracle,
light lingering, its own bright oracle,
in what the window framed, the easy range
of daylight, baton poised, whence to exchange
with evening's last lap runner; up until
just then, night's pressing hand would reach to fill
the place, the day would be over; no change
expected, light had now assumed the lead,
and evening, in a fairy gown of grey,
strode, as if staking out a claim of hours,
whence rose that optimism the trees fan-spread,
which to each meeting eye it would relay,
filling one sight, without within, its ours. |
