Let Evening Come

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

by Jane Kenyon

Other poems of JANE KENYON (35)

Comments (5)

Very sensational. Written the poem in a very involved manner.
...............so superb, this poem is so beautiful...adding to my favorites ★
Adoration Ancient Digitized Translated The language of desire is timeless, thought fashions cultures, infatuate on differing concepts, defining erotic vogues. The youth who qualifies, who may look upon thee, requires a body like an immortal god, to gain the rare favour; of looking upon the esteemed desired beloved; which translates as he is a stud, bronzed wearing a six pack, packed like steroid overkill. No foot fetish but desire wants to play a number on the ears, the ears sweet tongue wishes to devour. Incredibly a smile is bestowed, a sweet smile which charms, which strikes bold venturing souls with smitten wild alarm. To behold such ravishing tantalizing beauty, disarms within the viewer each vital power, to resist such bliss. Stricken smitten speechless, the owner of the gaze, will flame within, with a flame that runs swift upon all quivering skin; entrapped eyeballs will swim in head spinning din, as brain reels around temple crown. Overcome voyeur has hit senses overpowered wall, cold drops of love passion fever fall, nerves waxen in tremblings frail, lust enchanted seized is every limb; as grassy pale the onlooker grows snared, suddenly fail both sight and sound, the beholder has fainted fallen, a mesmerized victim of an intoxicating adoration delightful sight.
Wow! For a poem as old as this one, it seems surprisingly modern and easily understandable. Whoever translated it did a great job, I assume. (Maybe this English translation is even better than the original, who can tell?)
This has a sound of what I call the clean eroctic. Words that mean the taste of love made with words but they use is clean never vulgar. I marvel at the power of this great poet to express thought that has poetic might and then reads well even in translation if the traslation is good like this one. It is my pleasure to put here one or two words about my read of this poem. Luis Estable