Let Evening Come

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.

--Jane Kenyon


It is somewhat strange to begin my blog with a poem about endings. But Jane Kenyon's "Let Evening Come" marks my discovery of a poet whom I now count among my favorites. I first encountered the poem in a college class, after which I immediately retreated to my dorm room to commit it to memory. At a crucial time of my learning to let go of things in life, this poem offered comfort, and I revisit it still. If a poem can be a friend, this one is.