By William Osborn Stoddard
Saturday night: the sun is going down;
The purple light glows on the river’s breast,
Far in the east the dull clouds watch and frown,
Jealous of all the glory in the west;
The listless trees lean out along the shore
To watch their shadows lengthen down the tide;
And, far above us, slowly floating o’er,
The weary birds on homeward pinions glide.
The steamer, on the sand-bar fast asleep,
Tired with the week’s long labor, heavily lies;
Longer and longer still the shadows creep,
And evening mists from out the distance rise.