"When the gray twilight softly spreads
⁠Her robe o'er earth and sky;
When the far mountains' shaggy heads
⁠Are lost to human eye;

When the tired bird at eve hath sought
⁠Sleep in the tuneless bower;
When the last bee wings homeward, fraught
⁠With forage from the flower;

When the dark pinewood dimly shews
⁠Its deepening tints of green;
When in the west with crimson glows
⁠The sunset's closing scene —

I watch the glimmering shadows kiss
⁠The threshold of the night,
And o'er my heart a soothing bliss
⁠Falls in the waning light;

And grosser thoughts that sternly cling
⁠To life's dull sober day.
Leave me, as swallows on the wing
⁠Flit from our sight away.

And soft as ripple on the lake,
⁠Within my bosom rise
Half-whispered yearnings, that awake
⁠A thousand memories —

Sweet memories, that only come
⁠To woo my waking dreams.
When twilight shrouds the woodlands dumb,
⁠And slumbers on the streams —

Of faces that I loved of yore,
⁠And songs the loved ones sang,
And children's voices — heard no more —
⁠That through the greenwood rang.

O spirit treasures, ye are mine,
⁠And to my heart belong,
Yet linger not till I repine,
⁠Or sing a sadder song;

But leave me while I still have power
⁠To catch the sunny glow
Wafted from memory's blissful bower —
⁠The shrine of long ago.

⁠⁠You ask a song,
Such as of yore, an autumn's eventide,
Some blest boy-poet caroll'd, — and then died.
⁠⁠Nay, I have sung too long.

⁠⁠Say, shall I fling
A sigh to beauty at her window-pane?
I sang there once, might I not once again? —
⁠⁠Or tell me whom to sing.

⁠⁠The peer of peers?
Lord of the wealth that gives his time employ —
Time to possess, but hardly to enjoy —
⁠⁠He cannot need my tears.

⁠⁠The man of mind,
Or priest, who darkens what is clear as day?
I cannot sing them, yet I will not say
⁠⁠Such guides are wholly blind.

⁠⁠The orator?
He quiet lies where yon fresh hillock heaves;
'Twere well to sprinkle there those laurel-leaves
⁠⁠He won, — but never wore.

⁠⁠Or shall I twine
A cypress? Wreath of glory and of gloom, —
To march a gallant soldier to his doom,
⁠⁠Needs fuller voice than mine.

⁠⁠No lay have I,
No murmured measure meet for your delight,
No song of love and death, to make you quite
⁠⁠Forget that we must die.

⁠⁠Something is wrong, —
The world is over-wise; or, more's the pity,
These days are far too busy for a ditty,
⁠⁠Yet take it, — take my song.

Across the inner sunlight of a soul
⁠⁠A shadow fell,
Whose ever-deepening gloom shut out the day,
⁠⁠And seemed to swell
Until the blackness of that midnight hour
⁠⁠What tongue could tell?

Faith's sun had set, — Hope's star forgot to shine.
⁠⁠But Love drew nigh.
Like some ill dream the mists of darkness fade
⁠⁠Before her eye.
And sun and star with clearer lustre grace
⁠⁠The morning sky.