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.

Those of us who had the good fortune of spending at least some of our childhood in a rural setting must understand this poem in a different way than those without that experience. Still, any child who has taken the time to listen to a cricket chirping on a hot summer night knows something about this poem.

By showing us the dew gathering, the stars and moon appearing, and a bottle lying in a ditch, Jane Kenyon reveals the enduring peace of the natural world. Her ability to perceive this peace seems especially remarkable in light of her long struggle with bipolar disease. She knew well that the evening and darkness will come, but she also knew that there was comfort in the middle of the darkness.

I can’t read this poem without thinking of Dylan Thomas’ Fern Hill. The sense of the sacramental nature of the physical world pervades them both and I suppose for that reason they are two of my favorite poems.

— Kathy

Minstrels Links

Jane Kenyon:
Poem #474, Otherwise
Poem #1004, Finding a Long Gray Hair
Poem #1066, Let Evening Come

Dylan Thomas:
Poem #14, Prologue
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Poem #58, The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
Poem #138, Fern Hill
Poem #225, Poem In October
Poem #270, Under Milk Wood
Poem #335, After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)
Poem #405, Altarwise by Owl-Light (Stanzas I - IV)
Poem #476, In my craft or sullen art
Poem #568, Especially when the October Wind
Poem #1035, The Hand that Signed the Paper