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.
You May Also Like / View all maxioms
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
read more
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
And one by one to earth reveals
read more
But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
And one by one to earth reveals
Those purer fires on high.
Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods read more
Sweet bird that shunn'st the nose of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among,
I woo, to hear thy even-song.
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come, darkness, moonrise, everything
read more
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come, darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light, with heavenly warning
read more
Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,
Touched by light, with heavenly warning
Your transporting chords ring out.
Every leaf in every nook,
Every wave in every brook,
Chanting with a solemn voice
Minds us of our better choice.
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.
To me at least was never evening yet
But seemed far beautifuller than its day.
To me at least was never evening yet
But seemed far beautifuller than its day.
Hath thy heart within thee burned,
At evening's calm and holy hour?
Hath thy heart within thee burned,
At evening's calm and holy hour?
Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
read more
Hark! ah, the nightingale--
The tawny-throated!
Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst!
What triumph! hark!--what pain!
. . . .
Again--thou hearest?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain!
