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 array’d,

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.