When the hours of Day are numbered, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, Then the forms of the departed LONGFELLOW. PART VII. In the Twilight. TWILIGHT'S HOUR. THE sunlight on a waveless sea The softened radiance fadeth slowly; It is the hour when passion bows; A solemn stillness round us lingers; We feel the touch of angel fingers. It is the hour when lovers fond (For love its native air is breathing) Drape with fair hopes life's drear beyond, Gay garlands for the future wreathing. It is the hour when in far land The wanderer, tired of ceaseless roaming, And the dear home enwrapt in gloaming. It is the hour when mankind hears, Chambers's Journal. W. F. E. L. THE AFTERMATH. THE glamour of the after-light The meadow mists were lying low, And peace, gray peace, spread far and wide. A sober-heartedness was ours So still the earth, the sky so strange; We lingered in the meadow path, Dim, wistful thoughts within us grew, For all the wonder and the awe, Yet still it faded, faded fast, And night crept up the eastern slope j So home we wandered - thou and I Good Words. JAMES HENDRY TWILIGHT DREAMS. THEY Come in the quiet twilight hour, And the quick light leaps from the glowing heaps When the household sounds have died away, And the rooms are silent all, Save the clock's brief tick, and the sudden click |