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The
last bright relic of the moon’s full gold
Burns on the swiftly flowing river’s breast;
No sound but restless dipping of strong oars
To break the charm of nature’s perfect rest.
Far off the town’s faint mingled clamours stir,
And through the silence of the nearer light
The incense of the evening mist floats up—
The day’s last lingering love-word to the night.
A sudden shiver of regretful change
Sighs through the whispering boughs that overhead
Sway in the wind’s breath: down the red sun dips,
And in the twilight’s arms the day lies dead.
Then rain, and after, moonshine cold and fair,
And scent of earth, sweet with the evening rain,
And slow soft speech beneath the rain-washed trees,
Ah, that such things should never come again!
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Oh listening trees, where are the words we spoke?
Where are our sighs, wind whom those sighs caressed?
Oh! what a fate is ours, too swift, too sad,
If such an hour goes by with all the rest!
E. Nesbit.
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