by Emily Dickinson
The cricket sang,
And set the sun,
And workmen finished, one by one,
Their seam the day upon.
The low grass loaded with dew,
The twilight stood as strangers do
With hat in hand, polite and new,
To stay as if, or go.
A vastness, as a neighbor, came,–
A wisdom with face or name,
A peace, as hemispheres at home,–
And so the night became.
You can find this poem in Hope is the Thing With Feathers.