English poem
The Twilight Story
by Bliss Carman
The woods are dyed with purple, The west is washed with gold, And in the waiting twilight There is a story told.
The crooning river sings it, The tree-top robins call, The bloodroot stirs to hear it Beside the pasture wall.
It rings along the meadows With piping clear and wild, The burden of the moment By loveliness beguiled.
'Tis sadder than the south wind Or the deep sobbing rain, With memories of by-gones That will not be again.
It runs through all the music From haunted woodlands blown, When April comes with gladness To make the world her own.
It has the spell of magic That brings the mountains near,— The note of breathless wonder The hearts of seashells hear;
The story of the twilight Is countless ages old, And every one has heard it, And none has ever told.