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The Poetical Works of George MacDonald (Parables)

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III.

I stood in the gathering twilight, In a gently blowing wind;
Then the house looked half uneasy, Like one that was left behind.

The roses had lost their redness, And cold the grass had grown; At roost were the pigeons and peacock, The sun-dial seemed a head-stone.

The world by the gathering twilight In a gauzy dusk was clad;
Something went into my spirit And made me a little sad.

Grew and gathered the twilight, It filled my heart and brain; The sadness grew more than sadness, It turned to a gentle pain.

Browned and brooded the twilight, Pervaded, absorbed the calm, Till it seemed for some human sorrows There could not be any balm.

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