108 BIRD NOTES 



DYING NIGHT 



WINDS of the dawn, melodiously sighing, 

 Sigh softly on, for gentle Night is dying! 

 Grey grows her face, the pale lids slowly fall, 

 And white mists shroud her, like a funeral pall. 



Her patient stars are stealing from the sky, 

 Her owl flits far away with mournful cry ; 

 Her ghostly blooms close up their honied store, 

 And tempt the downy haunting moth no more. 



Softly her children slumbered on her breast 

 Farewell for ever to that sheltered nest ! 

 Farewell the tender folding of the arms 

 That kept them safe from perils and alarms ! 



No dreaming more for them, for, cold as snow, 

 The bosom of the earth receives them now. 

 Therefore, O winds, sigh on with mournful swell. 

 Farewell, gentle Night ! Farewell, farewell ! 



