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.