The late evening sun falls over the fields
Turning the newly ploughed furrows to fire,
Touching briefly the young buds on the trees
And the youthful in heart with desire
For something that not even love can give.
The rushes that stand up like spears
Will not be golden in the sun for long;
Even love will fade with the years,
Fading the sound of a bird's glad song…
The light that skims over the limb of a tree
Will not return again quite the same;
The wind whispers, and the trees sigh,
And the sun melts in a red and gold flame.
But the light remains: see, it is still here,
Here in the cottage windows winking back;
And even the faces of people coming from church,
Dressed in their dingy black,
Are gravely lovely, made immortal
By the genius of the sun;
In this late blossoming moment, beautiful
Is everything, everyone.