Sonnet to Twilight

Meek twilight! soften the declining day
And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves,
When, o'er the mountain slow descends the ray
That gives to silence the deserted groves.

Ah, let the happy court the morning still,
When, in her blooming loveliness arrayed,
She bids fresh beauty light the vale or hill,
And rapture warble in the vocal shade.

Sweet is the odour of the morning's flower,
And rich in melody her accents rise;
Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour

At which her blossoms close, her music dies—
For then, while languid nature droops her head,
She wakes the tear 'tis luxury to shed.