The wings of Evening, spread like phantom sails br Athwart the waning west, br Now as the last thin streak of crimson fails, br Seem as with sleep possessed. br Now hope is changed to memory, and time br Becomes eternity, br As thought were chaunting to a runic rhyme br In some old mystery. br The shadows deepen, and the Night's weird stir br Seems like a spirit still br To tremble in the silence, as with her br Death walked invisible. br The heart can ken, e'en like an echo dead, br The eerie things they say br Who have come from a coast where none may tread br Within the dream of Day. br Night and her paramour — the last of things br That touch the soul with fear, br As that which deems that it is deathless clings br To its own shadow here.