There the sun was, dying in the abyss,
in a haze of shadow, no sign of resurgence,
cooled, and cooling, slowly, dismally

Lowing of cattle: your voice, to the mind of Virgil,
felt mellifluous, as it does this evening
when a cloud slips off into the dark of the sky,

The thing was exquisite and superbly arranged.
It happened in April, and took place on a day
So mild you'd say love purposely made it that way.