C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.


Every evening brings us nearer God.


At shut of evening flowers.


The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.

Alexander Smith.

Dewy evening’s soft and sacred lull.

Paul H. Hayne.

O precious evenings! all too swiftly sped!


Vast and deep the mountain shadow grew.


  • Hath not thy heart within thee burned,
  • At evening’s calm and holy hour?
  • S. G. Bulfinch.

  • To me at least was never evening yet
  • But seemed far beautifuller than its day.
  • Robert Browning.

  • Now came still evening on, and twilight gray,
  • Had in her sober livery all things clad.
  • Milton.

  • Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues
  • That live among the clouds, and flush the air,
  • Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews.
  • Bryant.

  • How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
  • And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
  • For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
  • And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
  • Moore.

    Meek-eyed Eve, her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires through the Hesperian gardens of the west, and shuts the gates of day.

    Mrs. Barbauld.

  • One by one the flowers close,
  • Lily and dewy rose
  • Shutting their tender petals from the moon.
  • Christina G. Rossetti.

  • Now to the main the burning sun descends,
  • And sacred night her gloomy veil extends,
  • The western sun now shot a feeble ray
  • And faintly scatter’d the remains of day.
  • Addison.

    Women have in their natures something akin to owls and fireflies. While men grow stupid and sleepy towards evening, they become brighter and more open-eyed, and show a propensity to flit and sparkle under the light of chandeliers.

    Abba Goold Woolson.

    Sober Evening takes her wonted station in the middle air, a thousand shadows at her beck.


  • The summer day has clos’d—the sun is set;
  • Well have they done their office, those bright hours,
  • The latest of whose train goes softly out
  • In the red west.
  • Bryant.

  • It was an evening bright and still
  • As ever blush’d on wave or bower,
  • Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill
  • Could happen in so sweet an hour.
  • Moore.

  • The day is done, and the darkness
  • Falls from the wings of Night,
  • As a feather is wafted downward
  • From an eagle in his flight.
  • Longfellow.

  • And the night shall be filled with music,
  • And the cares that infest the day
  • Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
  • And as silently steal away.
  • Longfellow.

    Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.


  • The west with second pomp is bright
  • Though in the east the dusk is thickening,
  • Twilight’s first star breaks forth in white,
  • Into night’s gold each moment quickening.
  • Street.

  • Evening came.
  • The setting sun stretched his celestial rods of light
  • Across the level landscape, and, like the Hebrews
  • In Egypt, smote the rivers, brooks, and ponds,
  • And they became as blood.
  • Longfellow.

  • O how grandly cometh Even,
  • Sitting on the mountain summit,
  • Purple-vestured, grave, and silent,
  • Watching o’er the dewy valleys,
  • Like a good king near his end.
  • D. M. Mulock.

    Night steals on; and the day takes its farewell, like the words of a departing friend, or the last tone of hallowed music in a minster’s aisles, heard when it floats along the shade of elms, in the still place of graves.


  • The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
  • The bats are flitting fast in the gray air;
  • The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep;
  • And evening’s breath, wandering here and there
  • Over the quivering surface of the stream,
  • Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream.
  • Shelley.

  • Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
  • Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
  • And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
  • Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
  • That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
  • So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
  • Cowper.

  • When day is done, and clouds are low,
  • And flowers are honey-dew,
  • And Hesper’s lamp begins to glow
  • Along the western blue;
  • And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
  • Then comes the hour the poet loves.
  • George Croly.

  • Silence hath set her finger with deep touch
  • Upon creation’s brow. Like a young bride the moon
  • Lifts up night’s curtains, and with countenance mild
  • Smiles on the beauteous earth, her sleeping child.
  • Bigg.

  • A paler shadow strews
  • Its mantle o’er the mountains; parting day
  • Dies like a dolphin, whom each pang imbues
  • With a new colour as it gasps away
  • The last still loveliest ’till—’tis gone—and all is grey.
  • Byron.

  • An eve intensely beautiful; an eve
  • Calm as the slumber of a lovely girl
  • Dreaming of hope. The rich autumnal woods,
  • With their innumerable shades and colourings,
  • Are like a silent instrument at rest:
  • A silent instrument whereon the wind
  • Hath long forgot to play.
  • Houseman.

    Evening is the delight of virtuous age; it seems an emblem of the tranquil close of busy life—serene, placid, and mild, with the impress of its great Creator stamped upon it; it spreads its quiet wings over the grave, and seems to promise that all shall be peace beyond it.


  • The curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
  • The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea;
  • The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
  • And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
  • Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
  • And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
  • Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
  • And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
  • Gray.

  • Come to the sunset tree!
  • The day is past and gone;
  • The woodman’s axe lies free,
  • And the reaper’s work is done;
  • The twilight star to heaven,
  • And the summer dew to flowers,
  • And rest to us is given
  • By the cool, soft evening hours.
  • Mrs. Hemans.

  • Come, evening, once again, season of peace;
  • Return, sweet evening, and continue long!
  • Methinks I see thee in the streaky west,
  • With matron step, slow moving, while the night
  • Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ’d
  • In letting fall the curtain of repose
  • On bird and beast, the other charged for man
  • With sweet oblivion of the cares of day.
  • Cowper.

  • Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening’s close,
  • Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;
  • There as I passed, with careless steps and slow,
  • The mingling notes came soften’d from below;
  • The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,
  • The sober herd that low’d to meet their young;
  • The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,
  • The playful children just let loose from school;
  • The watch-dog’s voice that bay’d the whispering wind,
  • And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;
  • These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
  • And fill’d each pause the nightingale had made.
  • Goldsmith.

    Each evening we should meditate upon the fact that one more day is gone from the list that make up the sum of our years. We have one day less for the seeking and finding Christ; for cultivating the spirit of holiness in our hearts, for blessing society, building up the church, gathering sinners to the Savior, and promoting the glory of God. By so much the time is shortened that separates us from the grave, the judgment and the eternal destiny.


  • It is the hour when from the boughs
  • The nightingale’s high note is heard;
  • It is the hour when lovers’ vows
  • Seem sweet in every whispered word;
  • And gentle winds, and waters near,
  • Make music to the lonely ear.
  • Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
  • And in the sky the stars are met,
  • And on the wave is deeper blue,
  • And on the leaf a browner hue,
  • And in the heaven that clear obscure,
  • So softly dark, and darkly pure.
  • Which follows the decline of day,
  • As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
  • Byron.

  • Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
  • The time, the clime, the spot where I so oft
  • Have felt that moment in its fullest power
  • Sink o’er the earth so beautiful and soft,
  • While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
  • Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
  • And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
  • And yet the forest leaves seem’d stirr’d with prayer.
  • Soft hour! which makes the wish and melts the heart
  • Of those who sail the seas, on the first day;
  • When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
  • Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
  • As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
  • Seeming to weep the dying day’s decay;
  • Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
  • Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
  • Byron.