I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair And dewy feet, along the Alpine
To lead the cattle forth.
A thousand bells Go chiming after her across the fair And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,
And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells Of peace are woven through the purple air.
Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems To walk before the dark by falling rills,
And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams; She opens all the doors of night, and
With moving bells the music of my dreams, That wander far among the sleeping hills.
