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[ Also see Darkness Day Morning Nature Night Shadows Stars Sunset Twilight ]

Now to the main the burning sun descends,
  And sacred night her gloomy veil extends.
    The western sun now shot a feeble ray
      And faintly scatter'd the remains of day.
      - Joseph Addison

Meek-eyed Eve, her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires through the Hesperian gardens of the west, and shuts the gates of day.
      - Mrs. Anna Letitia Barbauld

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still
  And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
    When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill
      And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
      - James Beattie, The Hermit

Silence hath set her finger with deep touch
  Upon creation's brow. Like a young bride the moon
    Lifts up night's curtains, and with countenance mild
      Smiles on the beauteous earth, her sleeping child.
      - John Stanyan Bigg

And whiter grows the foam,
  The small moon lightens more;
    And as I turn me home,
      My shadow walks before.
      - Robert Seymour Bridges,
        The Clouds have left the Sky

To me at least was never evening yet
  But seemed far beautifuller than its day.
      - Robert Browning,
        The Ring and the Book--Pompilia (l. 357)

Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues
  That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
    Lingering, and deepening at the hour of dews.
      - William Cullen Bryant

The summer day is closed, the sun is set:
  Well they have done their office, those bright hours,
    The latest of whose train goes softly out
      In the red west.
      - William Cullen Bryant, An Evening Reverie

Hath not thy heart within thee burned,
  At evening's calm and holy hour?
      - Stephen Greenleaf Bulfinch

Hath thy heart within thee burned,
  At evening's calm and holy hour?
      - Stephen Greenleaf Bulfinch, Meditation

Evening is the delight of virtuous age; it seems an emblem of the tranquil close of busy life--serene, placid, and mild, with the impress of its great Creator stamped upon it; it spreads its quiet wings over the grave, and seems to promise that all shall be peace beyond it.
      - Edward George Earle Lytton Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton

A paler shadow strews
  Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
    Dies like a dolphin, whom each pang imbues
      With a new colour as it gasps away
        The last still loveliest 'till--'tis gone--and all is grey.
      - Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron)

Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
  The time, the clime, the spot where I so oft
    Have felt that moment in its fullest power
      Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
        While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
          Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
            And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
              And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
                Soft hour! which makes the wish and melts the heart
                  Of those who sail the seas, on the first day;
                    When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
                      Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
                        As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
                          Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
                            Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
                              Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
      - Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron)

It is the hour when from the boughs
  The nightingale's high note is heard;
    It is the hour when lovers' vows
      Seem sweet in every whispered word;
        And gentle winds, and waters near,
          Make music to the lonely ear.
            Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
              And in the sky the stars are met,
                And on the wave is deeper blue,
                  And on the leaf a browner hue,
                    And in the heaven that clear obscure,
                      So softly dark, and darkly pure.
                        Which follows the decline of day,
                          As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
      - Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
        Parisina (st. 1)

Come, evening, once again, season of peace;
  Return, sweet evening, and continue long!
    Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
      With matron step, slow moving, while the night
        Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ'd
          In letting fall the curtain of repose
            On bird and beast, the other charged for man
              With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
      - William Cowper

When day is done, and clouds are low,
  And flowers are honey-dew,
    And Hesper's lamp begins to glow
      Along the western blue;
        And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
          Then comes the hour the poet loves.
      - George Croly, The Poet's Hour

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
  Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
    There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
      The mingling notes came soften'd from below;
        The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
          The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;
            The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
              The playful children just let loose from school;
                The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,
                  And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
                    These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
                      And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
      - Oliver Goldsmith

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
  The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
    The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
      And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
      - Thomas Gray, Elegy in a Country Churchyard

Dewy evening's soft and sacred lull.
      - Paul Hamilton Hayne

Come to the sunset tree!
  The day is past and gone;
    The woodman's axe lies free,
      And the reaper's work is done;
        The twilight star to heaven,
          And the summer dew to flowers,
            And rest to us is given
              By the cool, soft evening hours.
      - Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans

Day hath put on his jacket, and around
  His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
      - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Evening

How gently rock yon poplars high
  Against the reach of primrose sky
    With heaven's pale candles stored.
      - Jean Ingelow, Supper at the Mill, a song

But when eve's silent footfall steals
  Along the eastern sky,
    And one by one to earth reveals
      Those purer fires on high.
      - John Keble,
        Christian Year--Fourth Sunday After Trinity

Evening came.
  The setting sun stretched his celestial rods of light
    Across the level landscape, and, like the Hebrews
      In Egypt, smote the rivers, brooks, and ponds,
        And they became as blood.
      - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!
      - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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