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10 Poems About Sunset

Be inspired by these poems about the sunset. Sunsets are at times breathtaking and spectacular! Read the poet's thoughts on these amazing paintings in the sky. The colors and the beauty of the sky are so creative that it is worth watching the sky change as the sunsets. Be inspired by Kristen Butler's words about sunsets: "Sunsets are proof that no matter what happens, every day can end beautifully."

Short Poems   /   Nature Poems    /   Poems About Sunset

  1. Sunset
    Poet: Howard Carleton Tripp

    In the wondrous west on the ocean's breast
    Lies the sun upon the deep,
    While the fair light dies from the crimson skies
    As he slowly sinks to sleep;
    And the dreamy haze of his crimson blaze
    Goes out of the summer air;
    As over the clift my fancies drift
    To a clime without a care.

    He seemeth to shrink from the very brink
    Of the dim horizon's line,
    Out and away o'er the edge of day
    To a land that is divine.
    He gilded with beams of golden streams
    The mountains upon the right,
    And then old time with a love sublime
    Gave the world another night

  2. Sunset
    Poet: Prof. John D. M. Brown

    I saw the sun set golden on a hill
    With crimson streamers of the dying day
    Mid molten copper clouds, with many a ray
    And glowing shaft of dazzling light, and still
    The sunlight faded not, but seemed to fill
    The sky with splendor as if it would stay
    Forever beautiful nor pass away
    Except in glory and with dauntless will.

    I thought of souls who bravely journeyed on
    Beneath dull skies, beset by pain and strife,
    Without the light of gladsome sun to send
    Them strength, until, when every hope seemed gone,
    The clouds had melted into radiance, and life
    Appeared serene and splendid at the end.

  3. Fulness Of Blessing
    Poet: Jeanie Grace Crawford

    The amber of the sunset yesterday!
    Its blue and gold, oh ! could they always stay!
    Say not so, child, — they only went away
    To bring in the new brightness of to-day.

    The pleasures of my golden yesterday!
    Its radiant visions! would that they might stay!
    Say not so, heart, — they only went their way
    As heralds of the blessings of to-day.

    Not mine the golden glimpse of yesterday,
    Whose colors dazzle but to fade away;
    For, though it wear a guise of sombre gray,
    Real is the silver of my own to-day.

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  5. Where Did It Go?
    Poet: W. C. Gannett

    Where did yesterday's sunset go
    When it faded down the hills so slow —
    And the gold grew dim and the purple light
    Like an army with banners passed from sight?

    Will its flush go into the golden rod
    Its thrill to the purple aster's nod
    Its crimson fleck the maple-bough
    And the autumn-glory begin from now?

    Deeper than flower fields sank the glow
    Of the silent pageant passing slow.

    It flushed all night in many a dream
    It thrilled in the folding hush of prayer
    It glided into a poet's song
    It is setting still in a picture rare;

    It changed by the miracle none can see
    To the shifting lights of a symphony;
    And in resurrection of faith and hope
    And glory died on the shining slope.

    For it left its light on the hills and seas
    That run a thousand memories.

  6. At Sunset
    Poet: Martha McCulloch-Williams

    Send me a song at sunset.
    And fill each pulsing line
    With the lilt the runnel sang in June
    And the sigh of the swaying pine.
    The swaying pine had green young tips —
    One soft caressed my cheek;
    Ah! happily the water sang
    The thing we dared not speak.

    Send me a sigh at sunset,
    A sigh for life and loss.
    My heart shall hear, and whisper clear
    A thousand miles across,
    "In June the pine had green young tips —
    But ah! beloved, remember
    How clear the steadfast hue abides
    In frosts of chill December!"

    Send me a thought at sunset;
    Straight on the level beams
    It shall leap the earth and breast the sea
    To color all my dreams
    Anew a golden June shall bum
    And pine-tips kiss my cheek.
    What time the lilting runnel sings
    The thing we dared not speak.

  7. Sunset
    Poet: O. L. Linn

    The brilliant orb of day hangs in the west;
    The gold-fringed clouds in splendor cluster round,
    And touch with amber glow the earth's dark ground.
    The beaten paths and crumbling clods abound
    With colors rare, and everywhere is found
    Sol's benediction as he sinks to rest.

    All nature sovereign beauty now assumes;
    As nuggets fair the' gold-tinged pebble fills
    The splashing brooklets and the shining rills;
    And how the grandeur of the sun now thrills,
    As large and red it dips behind the hills,
    And fills the earth with mellow twilight glooms!

    Across the rosy west dim shadows steal.
    First timidly, forerunners of the night,
    They seem to struggle with the parting light;
    Then stretching forth in unexpected might
    They merge from out their darksome covert, night,
    Their sullen shroud more boldly to reveal

    Thus oft we watch night draw its sable pall
    Across the glory' of the western skies;
    And night enthroned we watch as daylight dies.
    The tops of ghostly pines, now towering high,
    Are swept to motion by the winds, and sigh
    As on its dismal throne night reigns o'er all.

    We think of that last eve, when ebbing: life
    (As fading twilight yields its charms to night,
    Extinguishing earth's grandeur from our sight)
    Will close these heavy lids. But ah! the flight
    On cherub wings through darkness unto light
    Is brief; then rest we free from fear and strife.

  8. Sunset
    Poet: Sarah B. Sawyer

    High up in heaven the foamy flakes
    Of sunset-clouds are resting;
    The rose-tint o'er them softly breaks
    Their ragged edges cresting;
    Here lies a strip of darkling blue,
    Fringed with a soft pale yellow;
    Close by a crimson shade is seen
    Blending with each bright billow.
    But see! a purple light now glows,
    Fading but lovely still,
    Replaced by gold and silver rays
    That flash from hill to hill.

    Low down beneath an orange shade
    Of clouds more still and dark,
    The sun is slowly sinking now —
    Of heaven's sea the bark;
    For like an ocean broad, methinks
    The tinted clouds are spread;
    And through their billows bright, the sun
    Each day his course hath sped.

    But he has gone — and lo! the clouds
    That flitted o'er his way,
    The blue, the gold, the orange shade,
    Have changed to sober gray.
    'Tis thus with life — some brilliant sun
    Our rough path crosses o'er,
    But soon is gone; the ray is lent,
    Then, quivering, gleams no more.
    Not in ourselves are all the shades
    That make our sky so bright;
    But, like the clouds at sunset hour,
    We shine with borrowed light.

  9. Sunset And Twilight
    Poet: M. J. E. Crawford

    The sun hath gone down in the crimsoned west,
    The dove hath flown to her lonely nest,
    And the golden light of departing day
    Tinges the mountains far away,
    Till their green sides glow with a brilliant flush,
    Like a calm face lighting with love's warm blush.

    The sky is bright as the light that gleams
    From the sparkling waves of sunlit streams,
    And the rosy clouds are soft and light
    As the dreams which visit our hearts by night
    The soft west wind as it murmurs by
    With its fragrant breath and dreamy sigh,
    Makes music sweet as the pleasant tones
    Which fall from the lips of loving ones —
    Tones which leave in the inmost heart
    Gentle echoes which never depart.

    The eye which rests on a scene so bright
    Never can tire of the gorgeous sight:
    The soul is filled with a rapture pure,
    That mortal senses can scarce endure;
    The pulses throb, and the full heart longs
    To frame its bliss into thrilling songs,
    The glorious light to its depth to win,
    And drink the spirit of beauty in;
    Embody each delicate tint and glow,
    And breathe it in music soft and low;
    But its powers are bound in too bright a chain —
    Lips can not utter that spirit-strain.

    The bright hues fade, and a purple mist
    Creeps o'er the hills which the sunbeams kissed;
    The thin clouds melt from their mellow hue.
    And lose themselves in the deep, dark blue;
    While shadows steal o'er the quiet scene,
    Like fairy forms from the woodland green.
    The day-blooms softly are folding up
    The glowing leaves of each tiny cup,
    Quietly closing each drowsy eye,
    Till light returns to the eastern sky;
    While dew-drops gather like gems of light,
    In hearts of blossoms which scent the night.

    The stars come out in the arch above,
    Pure lamps lit up by the hand of love;
    And earthward spreading their shining wings,
    As if to vie with those radiant things;
    The fireflies glitter and gleam and glance.
    And seem to move in a mystic dance;
    The sound of streams and the scent of flowers
    Seem sweeter now than at other hours,
    And the soul grows calm in the twilight air,
    And bows itself in unspoken prayer.

  10. Beautiful Sunset
    Poet: Eva M. What

    I gaze at the beautiful sunset,
    Portrayed by an Artist Divine,
    In colors of roseate splendor,
    In which mellow glories do shine.

    Was ever a scene so majestic
    Wrought daily for mortals below?
    Methinks that the angels of heaven
    Are charmed with its radiant glow.

    Now misty, gray clouds are approaching;
    Will they hinder this marvelous scene?
    Ah, no! they transform to the grandeur
    Of the sunset, so calm and serene.

    The mountains so lofty and somber,
    And hitherto bleak as the snow,
    Now bathed in this far-reaching splendor,
    Become with the sunset aglow.

    Then each with its rare beauty tinted,
    Reflects on the valley forlorn,
    The soft, mellow halo of sunset,
    More fair than the glow of the moon.

    Be each of our lives as the sunset,
    Adorned by the great Artist's hand,
    Reflecting the light in the darkness
    As He in his wisdom has planned,

    Till like the gray clouds and bleak mountains,
    And the vale when the day has withdrawn,
    Each life may be lighted with beauties —
    As these, and keep passing them on.

    And as we are clothed like the sunset,
    With beauty the world to adorn,
    God grant that life's eve be more brilliant.
    With glory, by far, than its morn.

  11. Sunset
    Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley

    If solitude hath ever led thy steps
    To the wild ocean's echoing shore.
    And thou hast lingered there
    Until the sun's broad orb
    Seemed resting on the burnished wave,
    Thou must have marked the lines
    Of purple gold that motionless
    Hung o'er the sinking sphere;
    Thou must have marked the billowy clouds,
    Edged with intolerable radiancy,
    Towering like rocks of jet
    Crowned with a diamond wreath.
    And yet there is a moment,
    When the sun's highest point
    Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge,
    When those far clouds of feathery gold,
    Shaded with deepest purple, gleam
    Like islands on a dark-blue sea;
    Then has thy fancy soared above the earth,
    And furled its wearied wing
    Within the Fairy's fane.
    Yet not the golden islands
    Gleaming in yon flood of light.
    Nor the feathery curtains
    Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch,
    Nor the burnished ocean's waves
    Paving that gorgeous dome,
    So fair, so wonderful a sight
    As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.
    Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy hall!
    Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread
    Its floors of flashing light.
    Its vast and azure dome,
    Its fertile golden islands
    Floating on a silver sea;
    Whilst suns their mingling beaming darted
    Through clouds of circumambient darkness,
    And pearly battlements around
    Looked o'er the immense of heaven.

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