EVENING.
E birds, beneath your little wings
Go hide your little heads;
For oh! the pleasantest of things
On earth are feather-beds.
Go, seek your pens, my little sheep,
(And slumber while ye may;)
My own will rob me of my sleep
Until the purple day.
Shine on above the chimney-pots,
O placid Evening Star:
While gazing at you à la Watts,
"I wonder what you are."
You rose on Eden, happy place!
And still your smiles relieve
The woes and wants of Adam's race,
Delightful Star of Eve.
The nightingales are all about—
Their song is everywhere—
Their notes are lovely (though they 're out
So often in the air),
The zephyr, dancing through the tops
Of ash and poplar, weaves
Low melodies, and scarcely stops
To murmur, "By your leaves!"
Night steeps the passions of the day
In quiet, peace, and love.
Pale Dian, in her tranquil way,
Kicks up a shine above.
Oh, I could bless the hour that brings
All deep and dear delight,
Unless I had a lot of things
To polish off to-night.