THE sunset, woven of soft lights
And tender colors, lingers late,
As looking back on all day's dreary plights,
Compassionate;
— The foolish day of hopes so high,
Who counts her hours by blunders now,
Yet wears at last this jewel-crown of sky
Upon her brow.
Out to eternity she goes,
Not for her failure scorned, but see!
Our poor day flushed with beauty, one more rose
On God's rose-tree.