172 



nightfall will have a heart of red electric 

 fire. 



The other half folds back, rolls away as 

 a scroll, to rest, white and wreathen, over 

 the tall trees marking the creek's course. 

 There the sun, lying so warm on the still 

 valley, shall melt it out of sight. Even thus 

 early it owns the power of that low, slant, 

 golden shining. Underneath it, what drip- 

 ping freshness, what vivid, fruity scents, 

 what tender smile of late, pale blossoms in 

 this the sunset of the year. 



