A Nocturne.
The mournful eve, a weary moan upraising,
Low lays her head adown in honeyed sleep;
And flame-enshrouded all the hills are praising
The God who ward o’er man doth keep:
On high the cloudwrack sailing
Its golden skirts is trailing;
Floats sound of summer song the evening airs along:
Says the light
Breeze, “Good night.”
The tiny flowers, with silvery dewdrops dripping,
Before the queen of night bow one and all,
Who shod with feathery sandals satin-soft comes tripping
To hide the world beneath her shadowy pall;
From many a quiet hearth
Over the darkling earth
Is borne along the sound of song:
Says the light
Breeze, “Good night.”