The Cool of Evening

The wind is low in air,
And shakes the box-tree bare
Of spice, long hoarded there;
Cut black against the orange sky,
Two neighbors hurry by.

The door's ajar. I see
The table set for me,
My mother in her chair
Ready to say the prayer.

In journeyings to and fro
Our poor wild lives do go —
Then wind, scent, flare of sky,
The cool of evening nigh;
Roof, loaf, the fond word said —
Then afterward to bed.