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 whisper'd word--
And gentle winds and waters near
Make 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 day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
Lord Byron
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