Poems (Blake)/Twilight
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For works with similar titles, see Twilight.
TWILIGHT.
Out of the pearly gates and golden portals of sunset,
Crushing the amber light in the shade of her night-black tresses,
Weaving with subtle hands the mystical web of darkness,
Comes through the quiet air the shadowy form of Twilight.
Wondrously fair is she as the star that gleams on her bosom,
Holding the spangled robe that airily floats around her;
Wondrously fair is she, with eyes that are pure as heaven,—
Eyes from whose quiet light the blessing of peace descending
Falls on the cares of the day, hushing them all to silence.
Crushing the amber light in the shade of her night-black tresses,
Weaving with subtle hands the mystical web of darkness,
Comes through the quiet air the shadowy form of Twilight.
Wondrously fair is she as the star that gleams on her bosom,
Holding the spangled robe that airily floats around her;
Wondrously fair is she, with eyes that are pure as heaven,—
Eyes from whose quiet light the blessing of peace descending
Falls on the cares of the day, hushing them all to silence.
Out of the pearly gates she leads to their old- time places
Feet that are silent now,—forms that have passed forever;
Gently she draws them near, wooes them to sit beside us,
Holding our hands once more, speaking from soul to spirit.
Back to the white-haired sire she brings the days of his childhood,
Laughter and noisy games, and visions of boyish faces,—
Days when his heart was light, and all his hopes and his longings
Hung like pictures of gold on the beautiful walls of the future.
Back to the mother's ears it brings the prattle of children
(Grown to be women and men) clinging again around her,
Fastens the broken links she lost in the quiet churchyard,
And shows her the golden chain completed and clasped in heaven.
Feet that are silent now,—forms that have passed forever;
Gently she draws them near, wooes them to sit beside us,
Holding our hands once more, speaking from soul to spirit.
Back to the white-haired sire she brings the days of his childhood,
Laughter and noisy games, and visions of boyish faces,—
Days when his heart was light, and all his hopes and his longings
Hung like pictures of gold on the beautiful walls of the future.
Back to the mother's ears it brings the prattle of children
(Grown to be women and men) clinging again around her,
Fastens the broken links she lost in the quiet churchyard,
And shows her the golden chain completed and clasped in heaven.
But to the young man's eyes it shows in the dawn of promise
The beautiful days to come, the battles that lie before him;
Flushes of love and fire, victories worth the winning,
Honor and wealth and fame, the strife and the crown of glory.
The beautiful days to come, the battles that lie before him;
Flushes of love and fire, victories worth the winning,
Honor and wealth and fame, the strife and the crown of glory.
So does she weave her spells, till on her sombre garments
Crushed and hidden away lie all the roses of sunset,
And a quick arrow, shot from the silver quiver of moonbeams,
Drops through the dim gray trees to tell the night approaches;
Then in her shadowy W1ngs folding the gifts she brought us,—
Dreams of the beautiful past, hopes of the beautiful future,—
Like to a dream herself departs the mystical Twilight.
Crushed and hidden away lie all the roses of sunset,
And a quick arrow, shot from the silver quiver of moonbeams,
Drops through the dim gray trees to tell the night approaches;
Then in her shadowy W1ngs folding the gifts she brought us,—
Dreams of the beautiful past, hopes of the beautiful future,—
Like to a dream herself departs the mystical Twilight.