| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917. |
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| 169. Early Nightfall |
| | | By Scharmel Iris |
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| THE PALE day drowses on the western steep; | |
| The toiler faints along the marge of sleep | |
| Within the sunset-press, incarnadine, | |
| The sun, a peasant, tramples out his wine. | |
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| Ah, scattered gold rests on the twilight streams; | 5 |
| The poppy opes her scarlet purse of dreams. | |
| Night with the sickle-moon engarners wheat, | |
| And binds the sheaves of stars beneath her feet. | |
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| Rest, weary heart, and every flight-worn bird! | |
| The brooklet of the meadow lies unstirred. | 10 |
| Sleep, every soul, against a comrade breast! | |
| God grant you peace, and guard you in your rest! | |
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