D. H. Lawrence captures the moment when evening erases the day, like a palimpsest—an old manuscript scraped clean for new writing. Darkness rises from the ground, swallows vanish into the pale west, and children’s laughter fades from the hayfield. The daytime world, with all its busy meanings, dissolves into a lie as the night-stock releases its scent and a moon-blue moth flits past. What remains is a hushed, almost sacred stillness: the children gone, a single star glimmering through a veil of light, and the litter of day vanished. The speaker’s feeling is not fear but quiet acceptance—perhaps even relief—as the ordinary is overwritten by the mysterious. The mood is dusky, liminal, and slightly melancholic: a threshold between known and unknown, where the world slips into dream.
Palimpsest of Twilight — Summary
Darkness comes out of the earth And swallows dip into the pallor of the west; From the hay comes the clamour of children's mirth; Wanes the old palimpsest.
The night-stock oozes scent, And a moon-blue moth goes flittering by: All that the worldly day has meant Wastes like a lie.
The children have forsaken their play; A single star in a veil of light Glimmers: litter of day Is gone from sight.