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Christina G. Rossetti
One by one the flowers close, Lily and dewy rose Shutting their tender petals from the moon.
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Francis Thompson
I was heavy with the even, When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes.
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George Croly
When day is done, and clouds are low, And flowers are honey-dew, And Hesper's lamp begins to glow Along the western blue; And homeward wing the turtle-doves, Then comes the hour the poet loves.
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Day, like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down to unloose the latchets of his sandal shoon.
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James Beattie
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
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Jean Ingelow
How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
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John Keble
But when eve's silent footfall steals Along the eastern sky, And one by one to earth reveals Those purer fires on high.
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John Milton
Now came still evening on; and twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad: Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to they grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.
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John Milton
Just then return'd at shut of evening flowers.
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Lord Alfred Tennyson
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices.
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Lord Byron George Gordon Noel Byron
It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whispered word; And gentle winds, and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the heaven that clear obscure, So softly dark, and darkly pure. Which follows the decline of day, As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
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Robert Browning
To me at least was never evening yet But seemed far beautifuller than its day.
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Robert Seymour Bridges
And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more; And as I turn me home, My shadow walks before.
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Thomas Gray
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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Thomas Moore
Fly not yet, tis just the hour When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light, Begins to bloom for sons of night.
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