Picture Of Twilight

Poem By Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton

Oh, Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, though such radiance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage-window throws.
Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life -
His rosy children and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past
And these poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fix'd sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him - who plods his sauntering way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!

Comments about Picture Of Twilight

There is no comment submitted by members.


Rating Card

2,8 out of 5
70 total ratings

Other poems of NORTON

I Was Not False To Thee

I WAS not false to thee, and yet
My cheek alone looked pale;
My weary eye was dim and wet,

As When From Dreams Awaking

AS when from dreams awaking
The dim forms float away
Whose visioned smiles were making
Our darkness bright as day;

Dreams

SURELY I heard a voice-surely my name
Was breathed in tones familiar to my heart!
I listened-and the low wind stealing came,

Dedication

ONCE more, my harp! once more, although I thought
Never to wake thy silent strings again,
A wandering dream thy gentle chords have wrought,

My Heart Is Like A Withered Nut!

MY heart is like a withered nut,
Rattling within its hollow shell;
You cannot ope my breast, and put
Any thing fresh with it to dwell.

Edward

HEAVY is my trembling heart, mine own love, my dearest,
Heavy as the hearts whose love is poured in vain;