At Vespers

Across the fields from the maples tall

The growing shadows, which slowly fall,

Are black and cold.

The winds that howl through the leafless trees

In restless tumult, and break and freeze

Are strong and bold.

The sky is lead, with a flush of red

That deepens eastward and fades o'erhead;

The land is sear.

With ceaseless moan from the forests bare

A dirge is borne through the crisp, clear air,

For the dying year.

A softened swell from the vesper bell

Steals o'er the land, and that all is well

It seems to say.

Now peace is deep, and the wild winds sleep;

A western start shall a close watch keep,

O'er the dying day.

Ozora Stearns Davis

Index to poems in the collection by Ozora Stearns Davis