Ina Coolbrith

1841 – 1928 / Nauvoo, Illinois

Evenfall At The Gate

A rose-shot purple on the sunset hills,
And skies of golden fire;
Silence that like a benediction fills
The hour, save where the lyre
If ocean throbs, in strains that fall and rise,
Against the harbor bar;
Then dusk, and on the brow of Tamalpais
Trembles a single star.
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