When evening falls upon the heart,
And all we’ve loved has vanished with the light,
Our pathways, separate and apart,
Converge within the muteness of the night.

And there, within our solitudes,
We reach for things that beckon to no peace;
Obeisant to our sports and moods,
Uncertain, though, of what might bring release —

We lash ourselves to masts, and wait
For storms that our mythology requires;
And gradually devaluate
The warmth we’ve known, and felt, from homely fires.

What always ends, must always start,
And every wrong is born from some new right —
When evening falls upon the heart,
And all we’ve loved has vanished with the light.