Eventide.

The road, still winding up and on
Over the bare, brown endless hills
Is empty now. The sheep are gone,
And slowly silence comes and fills

– 37 –

The trees, the hills, the hour, the day
With something far more sweet than sound.
While on the sky-line far away
A filmy saffron veil is found.
And slowly now the sun goes down
And gradual shade with gentle hand
Soothes with a smile the fretful frown
And brusque hot-temper of the land.
Across the stubbly, log-strewn grass
A horse is freed from bit and goad
And now a wearied man may pass
Across the field, along the road.
A star is shining bright and clear,
A gate is reached, a voice is heard.
A child is held and counted dear—
Across the valley sings a bird—
And Bethlehem seems very near.

—Isobel Andrews.