NOW Winter at the end of day
Along the ridges takes her way,
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Upon her twilight round to light
The faithful candles of the night.
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As quiet as the nun she goes
With silver lamp in hand, to close
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The silent doors of dusk that keep
The hours of memory and sleep.
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She pauses to tread out the fires
Where Autumn’s festal train retires.
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The last red embers smoulder down
Behind the steeples of the town.
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Austere and fine the trees stand bare
And moveless in the frosty air,
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Against the pure and paling light
Before the threshold of the night.
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On purple valley and dim wood
The timeless hush of solitude
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Is laid, as if the time for some
Transcending mystery were come,
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That shall illumine and console
The penitent and eager soul,
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Setting her free to stand before
Supernal beauty and adore.
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Dear Heart, in heaven’s high portico
It is the hour of prayer. And lo,
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Above the earth, serene and still,
One star -our star -o’er Lonetree Hill!
– William Bliss Carman