At close of day

Warm, the desert evening

Closes over the moor.

Was it here we walked and were merry,

Only an hour before?

Magic light in the west

Smiles over the moorland swells:

Fairies invisible roam them

Whispering wonderful spells.

They whisper, and all grows strange:

Shadows are over the stream;

The still, gray rocks are a vision,

The solid ground a dream.

Trees murmur, and hush, and tremble;

The west is drained of light.

Earth slumbers beneath silence

And the beautiful eyes of Night.