Chapter 16

From a recent book of verse, where there is more than one such beautiful and manly poem, I take this memorial piece: it says better than I can, what I love to think; let it be our parting word.

“A late lark twitters from the quiet skies; And from the west, Where the sun, his day’s work ended, Lingers as in content, There falls on the old, gray city An influence luminous and serene, A shining peace.

“The smoke ascends In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires Shine, and are changed. In the valley Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun, Closing his benediction, Sinks, and the darkening air Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night— Night, with her train of stars And her great gift of sleep.

“So be my passing! My task accomplished and the long day done, My wages taken, and in my heart Some late lark singing, Let me be gathered to the quiet west, The sundown splendid and serene, Death.” {212}

[1888.]

FOOTNOTES

{8} Please pronounce Arkansaw, with the accent on the first.

{95} See _An Inland Voyage_, by Robert Louis Stevenson, 1878.

{141} Wild cherries.

{202} _i.e._ in the pages of _Scribner’s Magazine_ (1888).

{212} From _A Book of Verses_ by William Ernest Henley. D. Nutt, 1888.