Let the light of late afternoon

shine through chinks in the barn, moving   

up the bales as the sun moves down.

 

Let the cricket take up chafing   

as a woman takes up her needles   

and her yarn. Let evening come.

 

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned   

in long grass. Let the stars appear

and the moon disclose her silver horn.

 

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.   

Let the wind die down. Let the shed   

go black inside. Let evening come.

 

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop   

in the oats, to air in the lung   

let evening come.

 

Let it come, as it will, and don’t   

be afraid. God does not leave us   

comfortless, so let evening come.

 

Jane Kenyon (1947—1995)​