When shadows pale are sinking in hues the twilight weaves,
Upon the golden grain fields of gleaming wheaten sheaves-
Upon the emerald pastures and blue of forests deep,
When the soft mists of silver o'er the sea doth creep;
When 'mid the reeds, the swan's head is pillowed 'neath her wings,
The stream to sleep is rocking, light flowing as she sings,-
Then to my hut o'er thatched with golden straw,- o'er grown
By frail acacia green and leafy oaks, I turn.
And there with greeting holy, in radiant starry crown-
Her scented locks with deepest of purple poppies bound,
And with one dusky gauze enveiled her snowy breast-
The Goddess comes to me with sweet desire of rest.
A faint and roseate fire about my brow she sheds,
Soft mystery of azure above my eyelids spreads,
Bends low upon my breast her regal star-crowned tresses
And on my mouth and eyes, the kiss of slumber presses!