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See where the twilight draweth nigh,
Enswathing in the fold
Of her capricious mantle grey,
The woodland, stream, and wold!


Still deeper grows the silence, while,
In tenderest embrace,
She clasps the Bluebell, and enveils
The Daisy's modest face.


With mystic rite of unseen hands
She weaves her secret spell;
Dull earth obscured, alone awhile
With Fancy now we dwell,


And tread her airy halls of light,
Taste her ideal bliss;
Behold on high a cloudless sky--
The Poet's hour is this!