| Author |
Quotes |
| Alexander Smith | The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night. |
| Christina G Rossetti | One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon. |
| Francis Thompson | I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. |
| George Croly | 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. |
| James Beattie | 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. |
| Jean Ingelow | How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored. |
| John Keble | But when eve's silent footfall steals Along the eastern sky, And one by one to earth reveals Those purer fires on high. |
| Lord Alfred Tennyson | The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. |
| Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr | Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. |
| Robert Browning | To me at least was never evening yet But seemed far beautifuller than its day. |
| Robert Seymour Bridges | And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more; And as I turn me home, My shadow walks before. |
| Stephen Greenleaf Bulfinch | Hath thy heart within thee burned, At evening's calm and holy hour? |
| Thomas Gray | 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 Moore | Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night. |
| William Wordsworth | The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration. |
| Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon. |
| John Milton | Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad, Silence accompanied, for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale. |
| John Milton | Just then return'd at shut of evening flowers. |
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