At the Twilight Hour

A soft, sweet fragrance in the air
Of dew-wet flowers. Everywhere
A tender, restful silence lies,

Born of the misty, distant skies;
Whence twilight shadows slowly fall,
Like gauzy curtains, over all.
The meadows stretch so mistily,
Far as my longing eyes can see;
And yonder forest hides away
In its own darkness from the day;
And tinkling cow-bells ring in time
To yonder streamlet's slumbrous chime;
And o'er sweet Nature's paling face
Night letteth down her veil apace.

-- Mary Dow Brine (1816-1913)