Triumphant Day's grand pageantry
At song, and all the garlands won,
Far in the west the queenly Eve,
Blue misty mantled, takes her leave,
Tiaraed with a Sun.
And Lo! Sweet night, a nut-brown maid,
With silent wonder pursing lips,
Or humming soft a bird's low song,
Trips down the hall. Behold the throng
Bow to her finger tips.