Done the day

Done the day, so short,

caught between two dusks,

husk of the year,

drear sometimes or glitter bright,

light strung with gold,

enfolding a placid summer shore,

or shot grey with rain.

Train whistles, homeward bound,

sound full of melancholy,

follies of youth,

truth be told.

Old now we are, like the winter sun,

done the day, so short.

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