The wind of evening
stealeth hushfully
Where the high poplar
trees gleam silver - grey:
Born of the quiet hour,
the sleep o' the day,
Old memories throng upon
me mournfully.
Against the paling width of
the clear sky
The dark - green hill
inclines its tree - clad height;
The air is full of vaporous
tender light,
The solitude is broken by no
cry.
The green - gold disc of
the moon doth slowly rise
Out of the dusk whence
sounds the Augelus:
O memories of hours long
lost to us!
O bitterness of unavailing
sighs!
