Pure and argent, westward far,
Burns a solitary star,
Trembling as in doubt
If to linger, if to go.
Now the blunt-faced owls are out,
Soft of wing as falling snow.
Now the moth awakes to be
Part of evening's sorcery--
White as firstling foam.
'Ware thee, witch's butterfly!
Dryad mists from woodlands roam
On her hidden rites to spy.
Feel ye not the twilight awe?
Youngest things more closely draw
To the mother-breast:
That shall nevermore betray.
Now ye know, who sought for rest,
Why ye found it not in day.
