Soft comes the hush of eventide

And songbirds hide

In limbs of budded trees

To bid farewell to setting sun

With lullabies they've sung

Each night for centuries.

A lark is winging swiftly home -

Black dot alone -

Beneath auroral clouds.

All nature makes a homeward rush

As twilight's rosy blush

The eyes of night arouse.

By Margaret Yacavace