With thy rich breathing quieting the winds,
And the uneasy waters; twilight hour!
Whose mantle is the drapery of dreams,
And who hast ever been in poetry
Life’s holy time; thou who wert wont to steal
Upon us, as thy sandals were of dew!
How sadly comes the rustle of thy step,
In the decaying season of the year!
My early fire is low, and hurrying feet
In the short pauses of the wind go by,