How My Favorite Poem Helps Me Cope with MS

Jane Kenyon’s “Let Evening Come,” holds inspiration and solace as I struggle with fatigue, insomnia, and the unpredictable nature of multiple sclerosis.

One of my favorite writers is the late Jane Kenyon (1947 to 1995), a New Hampshire poet known for exploring nature and the grace of everyday life.

Her struggles with depression and the leukemia that caused her death at age 47 make her expressions of comfort and hope even more remarkable to me. Because I’ve coped with MS for more than 25 years, I find particular inspiration in Kenyon’s poem, “Let Evening Come.”

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A moment in the light

Due to chronic fatigue from MS, I’m frequently exhausted by the late afternoon.

In the first stanza of this poem, Kenyon invites the reader to:

“Let the light of the late afternoon
shine through the chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.”

It stirs me immediately.

These words remind me to stop and meditate as the day gently comes to a close. This is a time of peace as I relax quietly and let myself unwind. I resist the urge to fold laundry or wipe up spilled water from the dog’s bowl, and instead, I stretch out on the couch.

Although I will need to prepare dinner soon, I don’t feel guilty for taking a little break.

Following Kenyon’s example, I like to watch the light from the low sun move from the garden to the orchard, where it will eventually fall below the horizon. It soothes my mind to enjoy the moment, rather than brood about the challenges of today or worry about what tomorrow might bring.

A well-earned rest

I live in a heavily forested area, and by dusk, my yard reverberates with the sound of stridulating crickets. Kenyon’s second stanza is especially relevant to me.

“Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. …”

By 7 p.m., dinner is over, the dishes are washed, and I am resting yet again, giving my legs and mind a much-needed rest. At this time, I find solace in the song of the crickets. It is their time to shine, and my work has ended for the day.

Kenyon’s last three words in this stanza — “Let evening come” — are now a welcome refrain, and I remind myself that I have earned this night of rest.

No control, no regrets

The third stanza reinforces the theme of letting go, quite literally.

“Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass.”

For me, this means shedding any regrets. My own tools — the shovel or the mattock — may lay abandoned in the rose garden, and, while the laundry might be folded, it may not have been put away. There will be plenty of time to address these tasks tomorrow.

Sometimes I go out to my deck and ruminate on the final lines in this stanza.

“Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.”

These celestial events remind me that there are larger forces at work in the world. The earth will spin and rotate on its own, and it gives me peace to give up control at the end of a busy day.

A refuge from the day

The fourth stanza helps me retire for the night:

“Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.”

I now curl up in my own “sandy den,” a bed that is lined with cooling pads to soothe the heat and burning pains in my legs. Thinking of Kenyon’s shed that goes “black inside” helps me close my eyes and fall asleep, which is the ultimate refuge for me.

The stillness of air

Insomnia is another one of my MS symptoms. On those nights when I find myself unable to drift away, Kenyon’s fifth stanza helps by reinforcing the importance of letting go:

“To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats …”

The images of these rather ordinary items never fail to make me chuckle. I think of my own daily props — the toothbrush by the sink or the slippers by the bed — that, like me, lie still.

Then I think of the final words in this stanza:

“… to air in the lung
let evening come.”

The near rhyme of these lines (“lung” with “come”) makes them easy to recall and helps me concentrate on nothing more than filling my lungs with air, which invariably lulls me to sleep.

Evening for all things

The final stanza is a masterful compression of the previous lines:

“Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid.”

Here Kenyon reminds the reader that evening will come for all those things mentioned before — the abandoned tools and those unfinished tasks — and we must let night fall and not be afraid.

At the same time, this sequence symbolizes so much more. The “it” in this case, represents my MS. I feel as if the poet is speaking directly to me, especially when she calls upon her faith:

“God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.”

I do not know the ultimate course of my MS. It is now in the relapsing-remitting form, but a chance always exists that it will advance to the progressive level, which may claim the use of my legs or more. However, as Kenyon suggests, I am learning to leave my illness in the hands of God, who will comfort me along the way.

For me, the word “evening” in the final stanza represents death, which will come for us all one day. This final occurrence of the phrase “let evening come” reminds me that no matter what the state of my health, I, too, will succumb to death one day, just like everyone else.

Therefore, I am resolved to enjoy the moments on this Earth that I do have — whether it’s observing the “light moving up the bales,” witnessing the “silver horn” of the moon, or watching the “shed go black.”

Thinking of these things brings me comfort as well, and it is why I feel a special kinship with Jane Kenyon.

The takeaway

Are you a fan of poetry? If so, I encourage you to seek your own signature poem.

Shorter poems such as “Let Evening Come” are easier to memorize and allow you to muse on the deeper meanings behind the words, a practice that might help you cope with your own chronic illness.