THE day begins to droop,—   Its course is done: But nothing tells the place   Of the setting sun.

The hazy darkness deepens,   And up the lane You may hear, but cannot see,   The homing wain.

An engine pants and hums   In the farm hard by: Its lowering smoke is lost   In the lowering sky.

The soaking branches drip,   And all night through The dropping will not cease   In the avenue.

A tall man there in the house   Must keep his chair: He knows he will never again   Breathe the spring air:

His heart is worn with work;   He is giddy and sick If he rise to go as far   As the nearest rick:

He thinks of his morn of life,   His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night   Of darkness and tears.