by Jane Kenyon

    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.