Descending just as sweet to one—
The chimes have stopp’d, the meal’s begun.
REST.
The golden sun is setting in the quiet, silent West,
The feathered songster’s voice is hushed within its cozy nest,
And the evening breeze comes stealing o’er the fields of new-mown hay,
As Phœbus folds his wings and bids farewell the dying day.
The gloaming shadows thicken ’round the house beneath the hill,