The Quiet Man

The Quiet Man

Our summer settles as the sun-rays pain the hills

From gold to a softer brown.

Trees only half-lit, flick the afternoon from their fingertips,

They primp and strip the bright day for the night gown.

The matinee price is paid,

A grey blue sky reminds all who labor to cease;

And make whatever way one makes homeward.

Twilight calls for silence,

Tea or coffee with the inner man.

What who said

And where why said it

Become faded, and unimportant.

All is evening and all is bliss

When a single soul stops its march

And waits on him,

The quiet man, who meets with men,

And makes them men.