Rebecca Clarke — June Twilight

The twilight comes; The sun dips down and sets The boys have done Play at the nets In a warm golden glow The woods are steeped The shadows grow; The bat has cheeped Sweet smells the new-mown hay; The mowers pass Home, each his way Through the grass The night-wind stirs the fern A night-jar spins; The windows burn In the inns Dusky it grows. The moon! The dews descend Love, can this beauty in our hearts end?