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 near, 
Make music to the lovely 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, 
Which follows the decline of day, 
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.