At Eventide.

A poem by Freeman Edwin Miller

At eventide, when glories lie
In crimson curtains hung on high,
And all the breast of heaven glows
With mingled wreaths of flowers and snows,
The dearest dreams of life draw nigh.

The pleasures in their soft robes fly
With angel wings adown the sky,
And rapture lulls to sweet repose,
At eventide.

Ah, well-a-day! Life's weary cry,
And all its curse and care shall die,
When Age on downy couches throws
His weary limbs and only knows
The tender dreams of bye-and-bye,
At eventide!

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