Evening Capital

THE EVENING CAPITAL
"The Public's Best Friend"
W. M. ABBOTT, Publisher.
ANNAPOLIS, MD,
THE LAND OF THE AFTERNOON
An old man sits in his garden chair
Watching the sunlit western sky,
What sees he in the blue depth there,
Where only the Isles of Memory lie.
There are princely towers and castles high,
There are gardens fairer than human ken
There are happy children thronging by,
Radiant women and stately men,
Singing with voices of sweet attune
The songs of the Land of the Afternoon,
The old man watches a form of cloud,
That floats where the airy islands are
And he sees a homestead gray and loved
And a hand that beckons him afar.
Oh, cheek of roses and hair of gold!
Oh, eyes of heaven's divinest blue!
Long have ye lain in the graveyard mold-
But love is infinite, love is true;
He will find her-yes, it must be soon;
They will meet in the Land of the Afternoon.
The sky has changed, and a wreck of cloud
Is driving athwart its troubled face,
The golden mist is a trailing shroud;
It is cold and bleak in the garden place.
The old man smiles and droops his head,
The thin hair blows from his wrinkled brow,
The sunset radiance has appeared
O'er every wasted feature now:
One sigh exhales like a breath in June-
He has found the Land of the Afternoon.