The Land of Evenfall

There is a land that I have seen
In visions and on edge of dream.
There is a land so fiercely green
That summer's fire burns in each stream.
There is a land whose haunting sheen
Makes the eyes of its seekers gleam.
There is a land whose name might mean
The longing of each starry beam:
Land of evenfall, land of dream,
Land of deepest melancholy,
Land of flowers as pale as cream,
Land that makes the twilight holy.

This land is one of fairest trees
Arching to meet the grayling sky,
Tended by the porphyry bees
That visit hanging blooms on the sly;
For there they forget their duties,
And cease to buzz or beat or fly,
But within the perfuméd seas
Of the flowers they cling and lie,
Hearing slumbering winds pass by,
And enter dreams of purple night
Stealing over the grayling sky,
Slip into dreams of sweet twilight.

This land is one of dancing air
That slows its dance among the beds
Of the flowers that blossom there,
And among the nodding rose-heads
Finds a place of lethargic care
That is freedom; the drowsy reds
Of the roses' faces and hair
Call it down the soft road it treads.
It nestles in the flower-beds,
And curls on itself, and finds rest.
In no land else, alive or dead,
Can the air sleep on blossoms' breast.

This land is one of darkened shores,
Dark with the dusk's welcoming gloom.
Never has this place felt the oars
Of the ships that bustle and boom
In places where the ocean roars.
Here, the same silver spindrift-bloom,
Where no tide moves and no man moors,
Can lie and shed its salty perfume
Upon the sand's still drawing room
For centuries' and eons' years.
Here, where motionless mountains loom,
No one listens, and no one hears.

This land is one of sleepy songs,
Rising from the throats of the birds
For whom the poet's heart most longs.
Here, the nightingale's softest words
Almost overwhelm crowding throngs
Of thrushes whom the darkness lures.
Here, the raven, whom legend wrongs,
Has not a croaking voice absurd,
But one that many hearts has stirred
Deeper into the spell of sleep.
Here each lamenting, darkling bird
Has a voice to make poets weep.

This land is one of grassy meads
Rich with all the stories of night,
Where Morpheus plants dreaming seeds
That grow and open in the light
Of stars and moon and all that leads
That brilliance downward in its flight.
The grass murmurs slumberous creeds
To these seeds lying out of sight,
To these children of the midnight,
In the hopes that when the dreams go
Upon the wings of dreamers' light
They might this dreamland somehow know.

This land is one of jet-dark pools,
Upon which the white lilies glide,
Diamond-fire, diamond-fairer jewels,
Drifting from center to the side,
Moved by whim as the twilight cools,
As if the darkness seeks to hide
Its treasures, which would be cruel,
And to reveal, as their pads slide,
Just how fair the blooms which abide
In the pools of this far fair place.
The lilies submit, and so glide
With goodwill and with swan-like grace.

This land is one of fairest trees,
Caressed by the enchanted air,
Whose wavering wakes not the bees
Or the flowers that slumber there.
The blooms tremble within the breeze,
And the insects ruffle their hair,
But not one stirs from its drugged ease,
Not one moves, even seems to care,
As it lies beyond the breeze's call,
In the trees or on resting air,
Here in the land of evenfall.

This land is one of darkened shores
Washed over by the sleepy songs.
But not one echo from the dark tors,
Not one word from the hushéd throngs,
Wakes the foam, or touches the cores
Of the sea; each bird for sleep longs.
For as they sing, their music soars
Into the grasp of twilight's tongs,
And is turned back as one who wrongs
A divine law is made to fall.
The shores do not hear the birds' songs
Here in the land of evenfall.

This land is one of grassy meads
Glimmering with those jet-dark pools.
The grass lies dormant as the seeds,
Not heeding its necklace of jewels.
Not one tussock one lily heeds;
Morpheus this still place still rules,
And over all the slumber bleeds,
Deepening as the twilight cools.
And to wake the grass would be cruel,
Would have no purpose here at all.
It will have to ignore its jewels
Here in the land of evenfall.

There is a land that I have seen
In visions and on edge of dream.
I love this land of foxfire green;
I love the trickling sleep of stream.
I adore this land's haunting sheen;
May its dark benediction gleam
Forever, that this land might mean
The longing of each starry beam:
Land of evenfall, land of dream,
Land of Sleep's sweetest dusky call,
Land of flowers as pale as cream,
Land of dream, land of evenfall.