The golden sun is setting in the quiet, silent West,

The feathered songster’s voice is hushed within its cozy nest,

And the evening breeze comes stealing o’er the fields of new-mown hay,

As Phoebus folds his wings and bids farewell the dying day.

The gloaming shadows thicken ’round the house beneath the hill,

The water ripples softly ’neath the wheel that works the mill;

Then over all comes darkness, and the landscape fades from sight,

And tired Nature sinks to rest within the silent night.