culture

It is the time when crimson stars Weary of heaven’s cold delight, And take, like petals from a rose, Their soft and hesitating flight Upon the cool wings of the air Across the purple night.

It is the time when silver sails Go drifting down the violet sea, And every poppy’s crimson mouth Kisses to sleep a lovesick bee; The fireweed waves her rosy plumes On pasture, hill and lea.

It is the time to dream—and feel The lanquid rocking of a boat, The pushing ripple round the keel Where cool, deep-hearted lilies float, And hear thro’ wild syringas steal Some songster’s drowsy note.

It is the time, at eve, to lie And in a hammock faintly sway, To watch the golds and crimsons die Across the blue stretch of the bay; To hear the sweet dusk tiptoe by In the footsteps of the day.

Ella Rhoads Higginson, American 1862 - 1940

[caption id="attachment_171740" align="aligncenter" width="1080"]Cycling adventures at dusk in Wrocław The Gloaming Part 3.  Wrocław, Poland Copyright Content Catnip 2016[/caption]