Sunset- That Wayside Nook, and the Dying Sun

That wayside beatific nook, With a crimson seraphic look; Silhouetted against a dying sun, Like dying embers of a satiny run; Every twig lunging an officious bow, For a kiss of the pasture lain below; Hark, the trill of the melodious lark! Clung to the bevel of the bare bark; A raised horizon owing to an incumbent brow, Dwelled by the shades in a nascent grow; That divulge the affair of that distant west, Of the sun avid for a nightlong rest; And sink to the deepest of the longing horizon, Unmet, tho’ for an evanescent crest!