It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure.
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
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The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
The pale child, Eve, leading her mother, Night.
When day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to read more
When day is done, and clouds are low,
And flowers are honey-dew,
And Hesper's lamp begins to glow
Along the western blue;
And homeward wing the turtle-doves,
Then comes the hour the poet loves.
And whiter grows the foam,
The small moon lightens more;
And as I turn me home,
read more
And whiter grows the foam,
The small moon lightens more;
And as I turn me home,
My shadow walks before.
What bird so sings, yet does so wail?
O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale--
Jug, jug, jug, jug--tereu, read more
What bird so sings, yet does so wail?
O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale--
Jug, jug, jug, jug--tereu, she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,
Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,
A soothing charm read more
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows,
Mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate,
A soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws
And skies, with notes well tuned to her and state.
How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored.
How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored.
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of
heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the read more
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of
heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his
sandal shoon.
Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.
Day's lustrous eyes grow heavy in sweet death.
O how grandly cometh Even,
Sitting on the mountain summit,
Purple-vestured, grave, and silent,
read more
O how grandly cometh Even,
Sitting on the mountain summit,
Purple-vestured, grave, and silent,
Watching o'er the dewy valleys,
Like a good king near his end.
