O'er the low ground spreads the gloaming,
The ominous bat already I see
As she starts on her nightly roaming.
On Ponte Molle all is still,
I think the good old hostess will
Very soon the inn be closing.
A little owl I hear there screech
In the cypress grove 'tis hiding;
Campagna fogs up there now reach,
Over gate and city gliding.