O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.

Every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay.

For death and life, in ceaseless strife, Beat wild on this world's shore, And all our calm is in that balm- Not lost but gone before.

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning- Oh friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning.