E birds, beneath your little wings

Go hide your little heads;

For oh! the pleasantest of things

On earth are feather-beds.

Go, seek your pens, my little sheep,

(And slumber while ye may;)

My own will rob me of my sleep

Until the purple day.

Shine on above the chimney-pots,

O placid Evening Star:

While gazing at you À la Watts,

"I wonder what you are."

You rose on Eden, happy place!

And still your smiles relieve

The woes and wants of Adam's race,

Delightful Star of Eve.

The nightingales are all about—

Their song is everywhere—

Their notes are lovely (though they 're out

So often in the air),

The zephyr, dancing through the tops

Of ash and poplar, weaves

Low melodies, and scarcely stops

To murmur, "By your leaves!"

Night steeps the passions of the day

In quiet, peace, and love.

Pale Dian, in her tranquil way,

Kicks up a shine above.

Oh, I could bless the hour that brings

All deep and dear delight,

Unless I had a lot of things

To polish off to-night.