Oh,
Twilight!
Spirit that dost render
To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and running streamsA softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome!
Faint and
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, though such radiance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage-window throws.
Still as his heart forestalls his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life — His rosy children and his sunburnt wife,
To whom his coming is the chief
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling
And these poor cottagers have only
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fix'd sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,
For him those smiles of tenderness and joy,
For him — who plods his sauntering way along,
Whistling the fragment of some village song!
