Shy Evening paints all heaven gray,
Erasing blue from Balmy Day,
Uncolors brute box elders, oaks,
And elms with even, gentle strokes,
Then finds the houses, whereupon
She dabs her brush . . . their lights come on
As if two dozen stars fell down
To twinkle life into the town.
But Evening’s easel leaves undone
One mischief streak of Western Sun
To grace the masterpiece she drew—
“Still Life: An Evening’s Point of View”—
Till he robs her of fading light,
That thief of art, Black-hearted Night.
© by J. Patrick Lewis.
Used with the author’s permission.