It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard;It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word;And gentle winds and waters nearMake music to the lonely ear.Each flower the dews have lightly wet,And in the sky the stars are met;And on the wave is deeper blue,And on the leaf a browner hue;And in the Heaven that clear obscure,So softly dark, and darkly pure,That follows the decline of dayAs twilight melts beneath the moon away.(byron)
It is the hour
It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard;It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word;And gentle winds and waters nearMake music to the lonely ear.Each flower the dews have lightly wet,And in the sky the stars are met;And on the wave is deeper blue,And on the leaf a browner hue;And in the Heaven that clear obscure,So softly dark, and darkly pure,That follows the decline of dayAs twilight melts beneath the moon away.(byron)