Poem on the approach of Phyllis Stephenson's 91st birthday

I was reading Robert Louis Stevenson's Christmas essay which ends with a lovely poem that reminds me of my mother's last days. Here it is.

"A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

"The smoke ascends
In a rosy–and–golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night—
Night, with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.
"So be my passing!
My task accomplished and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart
Some late lark singing,
Let me be gathered to the quiet west,
The sundown splendid and serene,
Death."


From A Book of Verses by William Ernest Henley. D. Nutt, 1888.

The photo above shows Phyllis, the youngest child, with her elder sisters Mary and Dorothy.