The twilight comes; the sun

Dips down and sets,

The boys have done

Play at the nets.

In a warm golden glow

The woods are steeped.

The shadows grow;

The bat has cheeped.

Sweet smells the new-mown hay;

The mowers pass

Home, each his way,

Through the grass.

The night-wind stirs the fern,

A night-jar spins;

The windows burn

In the inns.

Dusky it grows. The moon!

The dews descend.

Love, can this beauty in our hearts

End?