278 AMERIOAN ORNITHOLOGY. 



EVENING. 



Dim grows the wood; the amber evening tints 



Merge into opal skies and stars just seen: 



Down vistas gloomed and winding there are hints 



Of elves and gnomes along the mosses green. » 



MIDNIGHT, 



A holy song the thrush has distant sung; 



The tree-tops murmur like some dreaming sea: 



Hark! far away a silvern bell has rung 



Twelve strokes, slow tolled, that faint and fade from me. 



MORNING. 



A shaft of gold upon my upturned face 



As fleeting and as shy as any fawn; 



Sweet odors, stirring winds and forms of grace;" 



Now tell me, is this heaven or is it dawn? 



Richard Burton. 



