At Vespers Poem by Ozora Stearns Davis

Across the fields from the maples tall
The growing shadows, which slowly fall,
Are black and cold.
The winds that howl through the leafless trees
In restless tumult, and break and freeze
Are strong and bold.

The sky is lead, with a flush of red
That deepens eastward and fades o'erhead;
The land is sear.
With ceaseless moan from the forests bare
A dirge is borne through the crisp, clear air,
For the dying year.

A softened swell from the vesper bell
Steals o'er the land, and that all is well
It seems to say.
Now peace is deep, and the wild winds sleep;
A western start shall a close watch keep,
O'er the dying day