The Coming of Night

HOW the old mountains drip with sunset,

      And the brake of dun!

How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel

      By the wizard sun!

How the old steeples hand the scarlet,

      Till the ball is full,—

Have I the lip of the flamingo

      That I dare to tell?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,

      Touching all the grass

With a departing, sapphire feature,

      As if a duchess pass!

How a small dusk crawls on the village

      Till the houses blot;

And the odd flambeaux no men carry

      Glimmer on the spot!

Now it is night in nest and kennel,

      And where was the wood,

Just a dome of abyss is nodding

      Into solitude!—

These are the visions baffled Guido;

      Titian never told;

Domenichino dropped the pencil,

      Powerless to unfold.