Bright Harvest by Grace Noll Crowell - HTML preview

Dusk at the Lake’s Edge

T

HIS tiny inland sea is splashed with gold

And mauve and crimson as the late light

spills

Its wild and ardent coloring; a bold

Frog croaks its call, a late bird fills

The air with tremulous cries, the insects skate,

Leaving long slender arrows spreading far;

The water lilies face the sky and wait

The silent coming of the evening star.

I who have been tired have found rest

Here at the lake’s edge, watching the night come

down,

Watching the high fires dying in the west,

A quiet settling miles from any town;

And I shall go back to the thunder of the street,

But with braver heart, and steadier hands and feet.

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