  The amber west melts into saffron, The east, a misty vision of rose: Like the sun, our souls seek repose. The mountains, empurpled priests, The river, the chant from their lips, Sunlit the pine-candles' crimson tips. At this hour of worship Shadows spread their wings; Silently the breeze-bell rings. The stars put a silver riband round night's tresses, The light fades like a receding song As fall soundless sounds from Nature's moon-gong. |
|
