Twilight in the Alps

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.