Dusk. And a single star. The night comes softly,
Gently to cover the grief of a day now past.
Slowly the wanderer’s steps turn to the red cottage window,
Haven at last.

Night. And the world is hushed. A trembling silence
Broods o’er the quivering grass where the wild folk creep,
Bringing the grief stricken mind, numbed with the anguish of parting,
Healing in sleep.

Dawn. And the world a thrill, the day comes singing,
Rich with the promise of youth, and a beckoning goal;
Bringing the memory, too, of one who lived for the sunrise,
Peace to his soul.

By Donald Ian McGregor
1908 – 1985


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