I don’t know whether it is morning or evening, I lie in the pale cradle of the twilight,
It is a warm evening and the twilight seems like a canopy under whose shelter we feel drawn together.
In the duty twilight lies a leg torn clean off; the boot is quite whole, I take that all in at a glance.
The twilight comes.
We were just coming back from the front line, and at a turning of the road near our billets, marvellous in the morning twilight, stood this cherry tree before us.
Summer of 1918—Never has life in its niggardliness seemed to us so desirable as now;—the red poppies in the meadows round our billets, the smooth beetles on the blades of grass, the warm evenings in the cool, dim rooms, the black mysterious trees of the twilight, the stars and the flowing waters, dreams and long sleep — O Life, life, life!
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It is a beautiful picture taken in twilight.
I awakened to a twilight sky, but did not know if the sun was setting or rising.