The violet and the rose,
Play lazy checkers on the evening air,
Slur moves into great lunging arcs,
'Tween peaks of stalwart slate,

The belly of the rolling hills,
Lies flat to frame the setting sun behind,
What glory in a scene,
What majesty at play.

Oh distant wings upon the lower sky,
I hold my ear up to your distant whine,
The evening rumbled in your song,
In swaying air the deepened line:
Away away to farther field,
Drag dust and soot sojourning,
Come cast beyond the surging sea,
To trembling mounts and valleys vast,
Span skies beneath the setting sun,
Grasp grandeur till your heart humbles,
Away away be swept into an awed applause.
What glory crying from the world,
What depth and height a gift of love,
What wisdom vast unsearchable,
What majesty that seeps into each blade of grass.

Impulses in the descending black,
Like rifts of passion that tear through bleak shadows,
They hide in metal covers on the road,
The sit on lofty thrones above,
Their subjects dance on metal stools,
They sit like second eyes infront,
Bursting from our tin charger,
That likewise plunges into the night.