The Twilight Hour

The molten air as it rises,
The masses of clouds that overhead pass
Are filled with their myriad surprises,
While the river rolls stupid — a glass —
Fearfully swaying at this — not far
The longing lest all light will cease
While our lips in the pleasantest hour,
Amid each bright placid tapestry seize.

— James Collinson

• James Collinson