When on the Marge of Evening

When on the marge of evening the last blue light is broken, And winds of dreamy odor are loosened from afar, Or when my lattice opens, before the lark hath spoken, On dim laburnum-blossoms, and morning’s dying star,

I think of thee (oh mine the more if other eyes be sleeping!) Whose greater noonday splendors the many share and see, While sacred and forever, some perfect law is keeping The late, the early twilight, alone and sweet for me.