The Close of Day Lake Katahdin 



The shadows now are purpling 



The crest of distant hills; 

 The Crimson God is wearied, 



But Evening's quiet thrills. 



The Loons begin their calling; 



The Owl his challenge sends; 

 The Deer in coves are feeding, 



Where the long lake-shore bends. 



Upon its burnished surface, 

 The tall pines seem to glow, 



As on that limpid mirror, 

 Their outlines ebb and flow. 



Birches and brush reflecting, 



A shore seems not to be, 

 And fiery clouds, mirage-like, 



Change hues while yet they flee. 



A serenade is warbled 



By tiny songster true; 

 And at a touch of twilight, 



Dense grows the vein of blue. 

 108 



