All day an ashen light serene...

All day an ashen light serene . . . . . . . . . . . Has brooded o'er this longed-for scene, Its tints and damask flush all hiding, As if obscured by a dusky screen.

Here when a child I used to lie For hours, and watch the clouds go by, See the black shadows climb the mountain Or safely ride o'er the billowy rye.

O Beauty, shy as sylvan run, Demure as some sweet-hooded nun, And wrapt about with grey of gloaming, Unveil thy face to the sinking sun.