A perfectly healthy sentence, it is true, is extremely rare. For the most part we miss the hue and fragrance of the thought; as if we could be satisfied with the dews of the morning or evening without their colors, or the heavens without their azure.
Silence on a hill where the path ended and then the forest below moving in one long whisper as evening touched the leaves.
When the evening is spread out against the sky / Like a patient etherised upon a table.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more; And as I turn me home, My shadow walks before.
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.
The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration.
Come in the evening, or come in the morning, Come when you're looked for, or come without warning.
And to hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast, and calm repose
Truth is tough. It will not break, like a bubble, at the touch, nay, you may kick it about all day like a football, and it will be round and full at evening.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon.
Some nights are made for torture, or reflection, or the savoring of loneliness.
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