The day dies slowly in the western sky, 
The sunset splendor fades, and wan and cold 
The far peaks wait the sunrise; cheerily 
The goatherd calls his wanderers to their fold; 
My weary soul, that fain would cease to roam, 
Take comfort; evening bringeth all things home. 
Homeward the swift-winged seagull takes its flight ; 
The ebbing tide breaks softly on the sand; 
The red-sailed boats draw shoreward for the night ; 
The shadows deepen over sea and land; 
Be still, my soul; thine heur shall also come; 
Behold, one evening God shall lead thee home. 
—LIVING AGE. 
Ah me, heart! thank God for the gloaming; and may there be a 
gloaming somewhere in heaven for those who want it! 
