Beneath the western heaven's span
Has sunk the golden day;
The clouds' rich sunset hues and tints
Have died in shade away;
The dim night comes from out the east
With gloom and vapour gray.
The stars far in the sky's blue depths
Their vigils 'gin to keep;
The moon above yon eastern hill
Climbs up the lofty steep;
The night-winds steal with gentle wing
Above the flowers asleep.
The birds upon the tuneless spray
Have folded close their wings;
And to the silent night alone
The winding river sings:
Its song is of the woods and meads,
A hundred happy things.
No voice is in the tranquil air,
No murmur save its own;
The earth is hushed as heaven above,
Where, girt with cloudy zone,
The moon goes up among the stars
To take her ebon throne.
Sweet calm, and undisturbed repose,
O'er all the landscape rest;
Yet is there in the breathless scene
A voice which thrills the breast,
A something, which in thanks and love
May only be expressed.