Twilight in the Alps

I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair

    And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells

To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells

    Go chiming after her across the fair

And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare

    Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,

And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells

    Of peace are woven through the purple air.

Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems

    To walk before the dark by falling rills,

And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;

    She opens all the doors of night, and fills

With moving bells the music of my dreams,

    That wander far among the sleeping hills.