With shadows in the sky
enshrouding elm and oak
the dusk comes silently.
Now wreathed chimney-smoke

with thin blue mist is curled,
and lights begin to gleam
about the hollow world
of hamlet, vale and stream.

Here in this hour of dreams
earth's muted voices throng
to build me quiet hymns;
and a little flower-like song

love's silver-throated birds
sang in my forest once
comes now with sharpened chords
to stir my sleepy sense;

and the returning flood,
the spirit's urgent pulse,
moves all my sensuous blood
with stories sweet and false

of how love was a string
that snapped when Life was player,
but still the echoes ring
for loveless hearts to hear.

Let the night fall, calm and sweet,
I would not hear this thing.
Let the darkness smother it,
and hush its whispering.