Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Evening Thoughts

Evening Thoughts.

'Twas eve. The lengthening shadows of the oak And weeping birch swept far adown the vale;And nought upon the hush and stillness broke, Save the light whispering of the springtide gale At distance dying; and the measured stroke Of woodmen at their toil; the feeble wailOf some lone stock-dove, soothing, as it sankOn the lulled ear, its melody that drank.

The sun had set; but his expiring beams Yet lingered in the west, and shed aroundBeauty and softness o'er the wood and streams, With coming night's first tinge of shade imbrowned,The light clouds mingled, brightened with such gleams Of glory, as the seraph-shapes surround,That in the vision of the good descend,And o'er their couch of sorrow seem to bend.

'Tis thus in solitude; but sweeter far, By those we love, in that all-softening hour,To watch with mutual eyes each coming star, And the faint moon-rays streaming through our bowerOf foliage, wreathed and trembling, as the car Of night rolls duskier onward, and each flowerAnd shrub that droops above us, on the senseSeems dropping fragrance more and more intense.