Evening

Evening

How sweet the pensive hour of even,

When Nature sinking to repose,

Robed in the loveliest dies of Heaven,

Around her glowing shadow throws.

Yon Golden cloud, arrayed in beauty,

So richly tinged with every hue,

What artist's skill can ever portray?
What pencil e'er so softly drew?

And, see, the lovely star of twilight

Just glimmering through its fleecy veil,

To hail the rising Queen of midnight,

Then gently sink behind the dale.

But, where's the charm which sweeps so lightly,

With thrilling touch each answering nerve;

Does Luna's ray, which beams so lightly

In robe of light, the spell preserve?

Ah, no! before the star of Vesper

Had hail'd that silver ray in view

I felt its power, I heard its wisper,

Breathed from each could of orient hue.

'Tis Nature's all consenting softness

That sweeps the trembling chords of joy;

'Tis the repose which steals around us,

When day-light cares no more anony.

Unattributed (Mary Gordon)

1:2, p. 15

1829.06.12