The bats are busy in moonless eve
With the goblin web they seem to weave,
Here where the thrush, when morn was high,
Published his heart to the passer-by.

Twice, o'er the lane; like a guilty thing,
The shy owl flitted with noiseless wing,
Mid the silent breathing of frond and tree,
And of all that debauched the noontide bee.

Behind the fir-wood, red and large,
The sun went down like a warrior's targe;
And full of news from a secret shore,
The wanderer, Night, comes to the door.
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