TWILIGHT AT THE HIGHTS.
Joaquin Miller
he brave young city by the Balboa seas - Lies compassed about by the hosts of night
- Lies humming, low, like a hive of bees;
- And the day lies dead. And its spirit's flight
- Is far to the west; while the golden bars
- That bound it are broken to a dust of stars.
- Come under my oaks, oh, drowsy dusk!
- The wolf and the dog; dear incense hour
- When Mother Earth hath a smell of musk,
- And things of the spirit assert their power
- When candles are set to burn in the west
- Set head and foot to the day at rest.