Page:Shingle-short-Baughan-1908.djvu/137

 There, nothing was staled, and nothing was tarnish’d, Everything still was new; There still was something to wonder at, Something to make, discover, or pat, Something fresh to do. It was as though the noonday sun Shone on undrying dew! Wandering, wondering, Eager and intent, Newness awaited them Everywhere they went; Newness went with them Everywhere they went. And lively, fresh as the morning, Raced the eager afternoon, Till suddenly, Lo! the sunset-glow, And the rising crescent Moon; And faint and far, one bed-time Star— Too soon!

No! for as the silent shadows From the hill began to troop, Knit in tender knots and clusters, Warm in many a nestling group, Curl’d against kind Tussock-cushions, Cuddled in a sandy scoop: The Little-Oness nestled together, and clung; Limbs were loosen’d, and hush’d each tongue; Long eyelashes hover’d and hung, And heads began to droop: As, with a last long kiss, Daylight Laid them upon the knees of Night, The nursing knees of Night: