Poems By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge |
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| LXV. |
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| LXVIII. |
| LXIX. |
| LXX. |
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| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
 | LXXXI. |
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| CXXX. |
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| CXLV. |
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| CLXVIII. | CLXVIII
EVENING |
| CXLIX. |
| CL. |
| CLI. |
| CLII. |
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| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
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| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
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| CLXIV. |
| CLXV. |
| CLXVI. |
| CLXVII. |
| CLXVIII. |
| CLXIX. |
| CLXX. |
| CLXXI. |
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| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| CLXXVIII. |
| CLXXIX. |
| CLXXX. |
| CLXXXI. |
| CLXXXII. |
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| CLXXXIV. |
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| CLXXXVI. |
| CLXXXVII. |
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| CLXXXIX. |
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| CCXIX. |
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 | Poems |  |
144
CLXVIII
EVENING
I
The great rain is over,The little rain begun,
Falling from the higher leaves,
Bright in the sun,
Down to the lower leaves,
One drop by one.
II
All greenery hath faded from the trees,The soft red earth turns brown,
No leaflet even stirring in the breeze,
Slowly the night sinks down.
The sun is gone, but in the lighted west
The gracious tokens of his going are,
And quick to shine out-gleaming all the rest,
Brighter for darkness grows a single star.
145
III
Now the sky is inky black,And the clouds a driven rack,
Now the wind of death is blowing.
“Sceptre and crown
Shall tumble down.”
How the kings of the earth are going!
IV
Mysterious Earth! mother of trees and flowers,
Born in thy busy darkness—home of men!
Whose turning sets the timeless flight of hours,
Who weavest life and dost unweave again;
Born in thy busy darkness—home of men!
Whose turning sets the timeless flight of hours,
Who weavest life and dost unweave again;
In some far distant star, whereof no word
Hath traversed space, or human or divine,
They call thee by a name we never heard.
Night after night they look to see thee shine.
Hath traversed space, or human or divine,
They call thee by a name we never heard.
Night after night they look to see thee shine.
146
Old Earth, if thou were burnt, a blazing light,
With all the men and beasts that in thee are,
The dwellers in the kindred worlds of night
Would haply say, “There fell a shooting star!”
With all the men and beasts that in thee are,
The dwellers in the kindred worlds of night
Would haply say, “There fell a shooting star!”
| Poems | |