Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Twilight

Twilight.

Come, gentle Twilight, come!And spread thy purple wingsAlong the shore, with fairy humAnd mystic murmurings;Come while the lake is still,And mute the breezes play—And birds with many an artless trillShall sing thy roundelay.

Yon little golden starHath filled his urn anew,To aid thy stealthy flight from farAmid the depths of blue;Abroad the glowworm hies,With living lamp to greetThy light fall from the balmy skies,And hither guide thy feet.

The lily's ivory bowersHave lost their elfin queen,The fays have left the dear-loved flowersTo trip it on the green;And now the merry crew,In quaintest revelry,Are scattering odours o'er the dew,And welcome dance to thee.

A little longer, then,Sweet Twilight, linger here,Till one sole songster 'mid the glenEnthrals the raptured ear;Then in the tangled grove,Beneath the greenwood tree,Oh! I will think of my lady love,And she will think of me!