Page:Shingle-short-Baughan-1908.djvu/138

 The sunset for their nursery-fire, The Cross for candle-light,

Then, as the sunset-glamour Stole from the hill, Still grew each meadow-lark, Every lamb still. As the tranquil twilight Deepen’d dim, The last throstle finish’d His last hymn. As the still Stars slid out To the still sky, Only the Sea sang on Low lullaby; The while, like a careful nurse, All her babes in bed, With calm, even, strong hand She swept smooth the printed sand, Clear’d away the finger’d treasures, And scatter’d new instead (Save favourites, tuck’d in crack or cleft— Those, she left); Pour’d into the rock-pools Freshness and food, Brought supper to the seaweed, And made all good. While, through the valley, In the dusk hid, The Dews and the Night-wind Like labour did, And into the lulled Green-Things Freshness slid.