70 
Yes, ’t is sweet Evening’s hour ! 
I know each signal well — 
The dying strains in brake and bower, 
The freshening breeze, the closing flower, 
These all her coming tell. 
Yea, now she flings 
From her soft wings 
A shade as sweet and sad as round past pleasure clings. 
And thou, oh flow’ret fair ! 
That aye, at set of sun, 
Dost yield those sweets withheld from day, 
Art greeting now yon star’s pure ray 
