Author Dorothy Wordsworth The evening sun was now sending A glorious light through the street, Which ran from west to east. The houses were of a fire red, And the faces of the people, As they walked westward, Were almost like a blacksmith When he is at work Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 No votes yet Rate Log in or register to post comments