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Mother of the dews, dark eyelashed Twilight !
Low-lidded Twilight o’er the valley’s brim.

SPIRIT of Twilight, through your folded wings
    I catch a glimpse of your averted face,
And rapturous on a sudden, my soul sings
    “Is not this common earth a holy place ?”

Spirit of Twilight, you are like a song
    That sleeps, and waits a singer, like a hymn
That God finds lovely and keeps near Him long,
    Till it is choired by aureoled cherubim.

Spirit of Twilight, in the golden gloom
    Of dreamland dim I sought you, and I found
A woman sitting in a silent room
    Full of white flowers that moved and made no sound.


                        By Olive Custance 135

These white flowers were the thoughts you bring to all,
    And the room’s name is Mystery where you sit,
Woman whom we call Twilight, when night’s pall
    You lift across our Earth to cover it.

MLA citation:

Custance, Olive. “Twilight.” The Yellow Book, vol. 3, October 1894, pp. 134-135. Yellow Book Digital Edition, edited by Dennis Denisoff and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2010- 2014. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2019.