There is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.
And the eye sees life’s fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.
’T is with a nameless feeling of regret
We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet,
But Hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour;
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.