It is the evening hour

It is the evening hour,

How silent all doth lie,

The horned moon he shows his face

In the river with the sky.

Just by the path on which we pass,

The flaggy lake lies still as glass.

Spirit of her I love,

Whispering to me,

Stories of sweet visions, as I rove,

Here stop, and crop with me

Sweet flowers that in the still hour grew,

We'll take them home, nor shake off the bright dew.

Mary, or sweet spirit of thee,

As the bright sun shines tomorrow.

Thy dark eyes these flowers shall see,

Gathered by me in sorrow.

In the still hour when my mind was free

Walk alone - yet wish I walked with thee.