A sonnet of art and age
Stare not at the Sun, we’re oft reminded,
But in the Magic Hour, as the Poets tell
Eyes can gaze and be not blinded–
The day’s work’s done, for good or ill.
The Farmer comes home from the field,
The Baker from the baking;
The Vintner casks the final yield,
The Maker ceases making…
The Magic Hour, the Artist cherishes–
The Hour of rosy-golden light–
The Hour as the daylight perishes,
Before the final fall of night…
The last bird sings, his song transcending
All labors and trials of the day that’s ending.