Poem by Menella Bute Smedley

Evening

It is the hour of evening
When nature is at rest:
Each weary bird is sleeping
Within its pleasant nest;
The bee hath ceased its humming,
The fish no longer springs,
Even the happy butterfly
Closeth its shining wings.

The pretty flowers are lying
Half hidden in the grass;
They cannot hear our footsteps
Or our voices as we pass.
For all their darling blossoms
Are shut in slumber deep,
Just like the eyes of children
When they are fast asleep!
The little stars are twinkling,
See how they shine and shake;
The little stars are sleepy,
They cannot keep awake.
The moon has hidden from us,
She is so very proud;
But I know that she is sleeping
Behind yon silver cloud.

It is the hour of evening,
As all creation feels;
The world is very beautiful
While slumber o'er it steals.
No sound profanes the silence
Of its unbroken peace,
But the flowing of the water
That can never, never cease.
The flowing of the water
Is a very sleepy sound;
The lullaby of nature,
With silence all around;
The music of the night-time,
It stealeth to repose.
The never resting water,
How sleepily it flows! 

1. Song (Take me from these dreary shades)
2. Windy and Grey Morning
3. The Little Fair Soul
4. Once
5. Hunting the Wind

Marjorie Pickthall Evening ("WHEN the white iris folds the drowsing bee")

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