Annie Adams Fields

(1834-1915 / USA)

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AN evening born for dreams! upon the shore
Lies the long glory in her vanishing
Of day grown tender ere she is no more;
The light is love's own presence; everything
Is sacred in that joy; nature must sing
Low to herself, her cradle-song! the same
She sang of old and made the meadows sing;
That was when faith was young, -- ere unfaith came.

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