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WINTER EVENING, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: But the rain is gone by, and the day's dying out in a splendour
Alternate Author Name(s): Hinkson, Katharine Tynan


But the rain is gone by, and the day's dying out in a splendour,
But the rain is gone by, and the day's dying out in a splendour,
There is flight as of many gold wings in the heart of the sky:
There is flight as of many gold wings in the heart of the sky:
God's birds, it may be, who return from their ministry tender,
God's birds, it may be, who return from their ministry tender,
Flying home from the earth, like the earth-birds when darkness is nigh.
Flying home from the earth, like the earth-birds when darkness is nigh.
Gold plumes and gold feathers, the wings hide the roseate faces,
Gold plumes and gold feathers, the wings hide the roseate faces,
But a glimmer of roseate feet breaks the massing of gold:
But a glimmer of roseate feet breaks the massing of gold:
There's gold hair blowing back,-and a drifting of one in clear spaces,
There's gold hair blowing back,-and a drifting of one in clear spaces,
A little child-angel whose flight is less sure and less bold.
A little child-angel whose flight is less sure and less bold.
They are gone, they are flown, but their footprints have left the sky ruddy,


And the night's coming on with a moon in a tender green sea,
And my heart is fled home, with a flight that is certain and steady,
They are gone, they are flown, but their footprints have left the sky ruddy,
And the night's coming on with a moon in a tender green sea,
To her home, to her nest, to the place where her treasure shall be.
And my heart is fled home, with a flight that is certain and steady,
Across the dark hills where the scarlet to purple is waning;
To her home, to her nest, to the place where her treasure shall be.
For the birds will fly home, will fly home, when the night's coming on.
Across the dark hills where the scarlet to purple is waning;
But hark! in the trees how the wind is complaining and straining,
For the birds will fly home, will fly home, when the night's coming on.
For the birds that are flown it may be, or the nests that are gone.

But hark! in the trees how the wind is complaining and straining,

For the birds that are flown it may be, or the nests that are gone.








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