Helen Louise Birch

AND so the days go by,

All filled with majesty and stateliness.

The eastways slant of the morning beams,

So fresh,

Turns subtly into noon,

And with a secrecy beyond belief

The hours pass

And the long rays slant into the west.

They tint the heavy phlox-heads red like fire,

And make black shadow of the pale wild currant.

The hills beyond the lake drift far away,

Unreal and blue.

Unreal and pure and fey—

(Oh, the long hour and the rising mist!)—

Is the frail beauty of the twilight grey!