by George Sterling (1869–1926)
Thou art the star for which all evening waits—
O star of peace, come tenderly and soon!
Nor heed the drowsy and enchanted moon,
She dreams in silver at the eastern gates
Ere yet she brim with light the blue estates
Abandoned by the eagles of the noon.
But shine thou swiftly on the darkling dune
And woodlands where the twilight hesitates.
Above that wide and ruby lake to-West,
Wherein the sunset waits reluctantly,
Stir silently the purple wings of Night.
She stands afar, upholding to her breast,
As mighty murmurs reach her from the sea,
Thy lone and everlasting rose of light.
First of “Three Sonnets of the Night Skies.”
Sterling, George. The House of Orchids and Other Poems. (San Francisco: A. M. Robertson, 1911).
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