By Ruby Archer

Come and marvel at the sunset!
Lo—a storm is brooding near,—
All the thirsty world imploring,
In a mood akin to fear.

Like a beaker in her fingers
Holds the world the valley high,
Mountain-lipped and cañon-hearted,
To the largess of the sky.

But the sky, capricious ever,
Hides the storm unbroken still;
And the pallid, sun-born nectar
Doth the beaker brimming fill.

See the weirdly golden essence
Lurk along, the shades between,
‘Till it drowns and rolls above them
In triumphant glare of sheen.

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