Or evening, with its tender lore
Of silver lake and purple height.
To morn I say, “The fairer thou:
For when thy beauties melt away,
'Tis but to breathe on heart and brow
The gladness of the perfect day.”
And o'er the water falls a hue
That cannot sate a poet's eye:
As though Our Lady's mantle threw
Its shadow there—and not the sky.