THE BIRD AND THE HOUR

The sun looks over a little hill

And floods the valley with gold —

A torrent of gold;

And the hither field is green and still;

Beyond it a cloud outrolled,

Is glowing molten and bright;

And soon the hill, and the valley and all,

With a quiet fall,

Shall be gathered into the night.

And yet a moment more,

Out of the silent wood,

As if from the closing door

Of another world and another lovelier mood,

Hear'st thou the hermit pour —

So sweet! so magical!—

His golden music, ghostly beautiful.