It's setting darkly in the western sky
And yet I don't believe it will be night.
I'm sure that it must be so, by and by,
After the sun has disappeared from sight,
But for the moment everything is hung
In perfect balance, and the air is tinged
With immanence. The night is not yet young,
The day still old, and where they turn is hinged
Upon this moment - if it should not pass
But stay, and linger onward in its pause,
Could night still come? I think it could, alas,
For coming darkness always overawes
Even the last of light. So we will sink
Into the night and out of this, its brink.
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