And all night long a passionate music stirs

 Without her walls—the darkened belt of firs;

 Hushed in their waving boughs the low winds brood,

 Murmuring the sea’s song for an interlude.

 Caris Brooke.

The last bright relic of the moon’s full gold

The

 Burns on the swiftly flowing river’s breast;

 No sound but restless dipping of strong oars

 To break the charm of nature’s perfect rest.

 Far off the town’s faint mingled clamours stir,

 And through the silence of the nearer light

 The incense of the evening mist floats up—

 The day’s last lingering love-word to the night.

 A sudden shiver of regretful change

 Sighs through the whispering boughs that overhead

 Sway in the wind’s breath: down the red sun dips,

 And in the twilight’s arms the day lies dead.

 Then rain, and after, moonshine cold and fair,

 And scent of earth, sweet with the evening rain,

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