The woodbine rustled on the wall,
The Marguerites in the garden waved
In murmurs one and all;
And, rippling by, the rivulet
Seemed sobbing, like a frightened child,
Who, wandering on, has lost its way
In some deserted wild.
The day was waning in the west,
And slowly, like a dainty dream,
The delicate twilight dropped her veil