Now that the West is Washed of Clouds and Clear

Now that the west is washed of clouds and clear, / The sun gone under and his beams laid by, / You, that require a quarter of the sky

To shine alone in: prick the dusk, appear, / Beautiful Venus! The dense atmosphere

Cannot diffuse your rays, you blaze so high, / Lighting with loveliness a crisp and dry

Cold evening in the autumn of the year. The pilot standing by his broken plane

In the unheard-of mountains, looks on you, / And warms his heart a moment at your light . . .

Benignant planet, sweet, familiar sight . . .

Thinking he may be found, he may again

See home, breaks the stale buttered crust in two.