The Sun high over a far-off place,
Low shines through my near trees.
From its zenith where reaching every space,
To where but just long shadows sees.

From a day yet young and yearning,
To its end where all but done.
A world of work and earning,
To where for now that race is run.

And clock-led it will follow our course,
Of a soft-coloured weary wend.
As moves across the sky, day's source,
To draw it gently to an end.