By Luis G. Dato
The stir of business relapses to silence
With the slowly sinking sun.
The revels of pleasure commence for the weary,
But children peering in the deepening dusk
From playmates and playthings the livelong day,
Children in tiny, toy-houses know not
What night always brings to older, wiser men.
At the hills where the tremulous shafts of light are flung
On a sea and a sky of gold,
Children throw a look, careless,
Transient as the beauty they see not,
As the sight they cannot enjoy, nor in losing regret,
Like men sophisticated.
Children at twilight cease from their labor and frolic,
Impatient of morning.
From prodigal play, ungetting,
They sleep ungiven to the pleasure and fancy
Of older, wiser men.