All rosy bright the sun
Sinks in the crimson glory of the west;
And tired workers now, their labour done,
Betake themselves to rest.

The twilight shadows fall,
And silence waits upon the fading day;
And in the summer woods the songsters all
Have ceased their evening lay.

Then wherefore dost thou stay?
Cleave with swift wing the incense-breathing air!
Come from the regions of the drooping day
With that which thou dost bear.

My snow-white messenger!
This hour I've watched the weary sun decline,
Thinking each moment that thy wings would stir
The leafy jessamine:

That thou wouldst enter in —
Thy snowy plumage ruffled on thy breast,
And perch upon my bosom, and begin.
To take thy well-earned rest.

And still thou art not here —
The sun has sunk behind the woods afar,
And through the silver twilight, lone and clear,
Looks forth the evening star.

I know that he doth sit
Beside his open casement far away;
O'er his pale brow the twilight shadows flit,
As if at merry play;

The book is on his knee —
He gazes far across the uplands dim;
His thoughts are in the chamber here with me,
While mine are there with him.

How wonderful is Thought
When borne upon the rapid wings of Love!
'Tis with the spirit's deepest breathings fraught,
And needs no Carrier Dove.

To waft it through the air;
The heart is flooded by its silent power;
As in dim summer dawns the dewdrops fair
Refresh a thirsty flower!

But now thy journey's past,
My pure-plumed messenger, and here thou art —
I've read his wished-for letter o'er at last,
And pressed it to my heart;

And when a blissful thought
Awakes me in the drowsy hours of night,
I'll kiss the letter o'er which thou hast brought
Beneath thy pinions white.

My thanks I owe to thee,
Thou ever-faithful messenger of Love,
Whose murmurous cooing speaks so tenderly;
My gentle Carrier Dove!