from the archive.

Over the chain of giant peaks The great red sun goes down, And in the stealthy floods of night The distant valleys drown. Yon moon that cleaves the gloomy pines Has freshness in her train; Low wind, faint stream, and waterfall Haunt me with their refrain. The tired woodman seeks his cot That twinkles up the hill; And sleep has touched the wanderers That sang the twilight still. To-night — ah! beauty of to-night I need my friend to praise, So take the lute to lure him on Through the fragrant, dew-lit ways.