Faintly as fades the smile from sleeping lips,
The last of day wanes in the quiet West;
And from the blue above me darkness dips,
Like some wing-weary bird above its nest.

Dim as a warrior's tarnished shield, the moon
Rests on the dusky borders of the sea—
Whose deep voice, like some weird old prophet's rune,
Through the still air is borne afar to me.

The low of herds is hushed upon the hill,
The mill has ceased to murmur by the stream;
In yellow fields the clanging scythe is still,
And all the darkling world is in a dream.

One after one, among the stirless trees,
The lights come out along the village streets,
And many a pleasant glimpse of household ease
Lends night, with all its stars, a charm more sweet.

And hark! where in the gloom, the time-worn tower
Looms gaunt and ghost-like from the cypress grove,
How tenderly the church-clock tolls the hour—
The holy hour of perfect peace and love!

Sweet hour! from whose cool, crystal urns of air
The soothing draught to fevered care is given,
Whose starry silence, like a wordless prayer,
Uplifts the dark world to the gates of heaven.