William Carlos Williams - A Quiet Evening

A Quiet Evening Where hawks fly Over the crickets.

Clouds rolled, The night softly returns To the horizon.

In the shadow of coming stir, That continues crickets born, We recognize, The slowly enforcing you.

Such evenings grow Under the wheat— The moist, soft air.

But the sky blackens And begins to call, We walk alone.

In the dark, In that sigh, The ways gone are lost!