Dusk. The day eases to a close, the sun a fiery ember sinking below the horizon. This, for me, is the most romantic time. These are best poems about dusk, if you read these poems in dusk, the poem will more beautiful.
Famous Poems About Dusk
It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free
By William Wordsworth
It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,
The holy time is quiet as a Nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquility;
The gentleness of heaven broods o’er the Sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder—everlastingly.
Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the Temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
At Dusk
By George Sterling
Eve, and the stainèd pinions of the day,
Far-sinking as an eagle to her nest
On some encrimsoned isle beyond the West.
But o’er thy distant and imagined way
I know the stars inexorable lay
Their spell upon the night, the night unblest
That bars me from the haven of thy breast.
And all the joy my soul would swoon to say.
Oh! sad as morning fled or twilight come
The weeks and days that part my lips from thine,
Whose murmurs hold the chords of Eden dumb,
As now in memory’s regretful night
I build and enter an enchanted shrine-
Thy voice its music and thy face its light!
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
By Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold
By William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
The Darkling Thrush
By Thomas Hardy
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
Moose At Dusk
By David L. Harrison
At shadowy dusk,
when trees take faces
and stones move,
I hurry for home
thinking only
of leaving the forest
before full dark-
I’ve stayed too long.
When from the deepening gloom
you materialize
like a phantom beast —
high shouldered, massive,
mute.
Caught by surprise
(uncomfortable)
I stare,
thinking how easily
you knew I was here.
Before my eyes you blend
with shadows, disappear.
I cannot blink you back,
but still you’re there.
Knowing I’m not alone,
I double my steps
and jog for home.
Shooting Baskets At Dusk
By Michael Mcfee
He will never be happier than this,
lost in the perfectly thoughtless motion
of shot, rebound, dribble, shot,
his mind removed as the gossipy swallows
that pick and roll, that give and go
down the school chimney like smoke in reverse
as he shoots, rebounds, dribbles, shoots,
the brick wall giving the dribble back
to his body beginning another run
from foul line, corner, left of the key,
the jealous rim guarding its fickle net
as he shoots, rebounds, dribbles, shoots,
absorbed in the rhythm that seems to flow
from his fingertips to the winded sky
and back again to this lonely orbit
of shot, rebound, dribble, shot,
until he is just a shadow and a sound
though the ball still burns in his vanished hands.
Short Poems About Dusk
Dusk
By Sara Teasdale
The moon is like a scimitar,
A little silver scimitar,
A-drifting down the sky.
And near beside it is a star,
A timid twinkling golden star,
That watches likes an eye.
And thro’ the nursery window-pane
The witches have a fire again,
Just like the ones we make,—
And now I know they’re having tea,
I wish they’d give a cup to me,
With witches’ currant cake.
Dusk
By Emily Dickinson
She sweeps with many-colored brooms—
And leaves the shreds behind—
Oh, Housewife in the Evening West,
Come back, and dust the Pond!
You dropped a Purple Ravelling in—
You dropped an Amber Thread—
And now You’ve littered all the East
With Duds of Emerald!
Dusk
by James Whitcomb Riley
The frightened herds of clouds across the sky
Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day
Into the dusky forest-lands of gray
And sombre twilight. Far and faint, and high,
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry
Sad as the wail of some poor castaway
Who sees a vessel drifting far astray
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die.
The children, riotous from school, grow bold
And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust
Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold
Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold
Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust.
Dusk in Autumn
By Sara Teasdale
The moon is like a scimitar,
A little silver scimitar,
A-drifting down the sky.
And near beside it is a star,
A timid twinkling golden star,
That watches likes an eye.
And thro’ the nursery window-pane
The witches have a fire again,
Just like the ones we make,—
And now I know they’re having tea,
I wish they’d give a cup to me,
With witches’ currant cake.
Central Park at Dusk
By Sara Teasdale
Buildings above the leafless trees
Loom high as castles in a dream,
While one by one the lamps come out
To thread the twilight with a gleam.
There is no sign of leaf or bud,
A hush is over everything—
Silent as women wait for love,
The world is waiting for the spring.
Winter Dusk
By Sara Teasdale
I watch the great clear twilight
Veiling the ice-bowed trees;
Their branches tinkle faintly
With crystal melodies.
The larches bend their silver
Over the hush of snow;
One star is lighted in the west,
Two in the zenith glow.
For a moment I have forgotten
Wars and women who mourn,
I think of the mother who bore me
And thank her that I was born.
Twilight’s Solace
By Lucas Elizabeth
Day’s last embers, fading light,
Stars peek through, diamonds bright.
A space to breathe, the world unwinds,
Maybe solace, dusk will find.
Leave a Reply