Charles Sangster (1822–1893)

ONE solitary bird melodiously

Trilled its sweet vesper from a grove of elm,

One solitary sail upon the sea

Rested, unmindful of its potent helm.

And down behind the forest trees the sun,

Arrayed in burning splendours, slowly rolled,

Like to some sacrificial urn, o’errun

With flaming hues of crimson, blue and gold.

The fisher ceased his song, hung on his oars,

Pausing to look, a pulse in every breath,

And, in imagination, saw the shores

Elysian, rising o’er the realms of Death.

And down on tiptoe came the gradual night,

A gentle twilight first, with silver wings,

And still from out the darkening infinite

Came shadowy forms, like deep imaginings.

There was no light in all the brooding air,

There was no darkness yet to blind the eyes,

But through the space interminable, there

Nature and Silence passed in solemn guise.