Choosing, as background for its loveliness,
The dewy shadows and the twilight lone;
Making the hush of eventide its own.
The blaze and sunshine of the summer hours
Know not nor prize the blooms they never see;
None of the jubilant and day-lit flowers
Hail it as sister, but the drowsy bee
And the night-moth, just roused from his repose,
They love it better than the fair, proud rose.
A type it seems of some shy human hearts,