Still is the sunset adrift as a spirit in doubt that dissembles
⁠Still with itself, being sick of division and dimmed by dismay—
Nay, not so; but with love and delight beyond passion it trembles,
⁠Fearful and fain of the night, lovely with love of the day:
Fain and fearful of rest that is like unto death, and begotten
⁠Out of the womb of the tomb, born of the seed of the grave:
Lovely with shadows of loves that are only not wholly forgotten,
⁠Only not wholly suppressed by the dark as a wreck by the wave.