The sun is set, the day is o'er,
And labor's voice is heard no more;
On high, the silver moon is hung;
The birds their vesper hymns have sung,
Save one, who oft breaks forth anew,
To chant another sweet adieu
To all the glories of the day,
And all its pleasures passed away.
Her twilight robe all nature wears,
And evening sheds her fragrant tears,
Which every thirsty plant receives,
While silence trembles on its leaves.
From every tree and every bush,
There seems to breathe a soothing hush;
While every transient sound but shows
How deep and still is the repose.
Thus calm and fair may all things be,
When life's last sun has set with me;
And may the lamp of memory shine
As sweetly on my day's decline,
As yon pale crescent, pure and fair,
That hangs so safely in the air,
And pours her mild, reflected light,
To soothe and bless the weary sight.
And may my spirit often wake
Like thine, sweet bird; and, singing, take
Another farewell of the sun,—
Of pleasures past, of labors done.
See, where the glorious sun has set,
A line of light is lingering yet:
O, thus may love awhile illume
The silent darkness of my tomb.
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