* * * * *
Now nearly fled was sunset's light,
Leaving but so much of its beam
As gave to objects, late so blight,
The coloring of a shadowy dream;
And there was still where Day had set
A flush that spoke him loath to die--
A last link of his glory yet,
Binding together earth and sky.
Say, why is it that twilight best
Becomes even brows the loveliest?
That dimness with its softening Touch
Can bring out grace unfelt before,
And charms we ne'er can see too much,
When seen but half enchant the more?
Alas, it is that every joy
In fulness finds its worst alloy,
And half a bliss, but hoped or guessed,
Is sweeter than the whole possest;--
That Beauty, when least shone upon,
A creature most ideal grows;
And there's no light from moon or sun
Like that Imagination throws;--
It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks
Even from a bright reality,
And turning inly, feels and thinks
For heavenlier things than e'er will be.
Such was the effect of twilight's hour
On the fair groups that, round and round,
From glade to grot, from bank to bower,
Now wandered thro' this fairy ground;
And thus did Fancy--and champagne--
Work on the sight their dazzling spells,
Till nymphs that looked at noonday plain,
Now brightened in the gloom to belles;
And the brief interval of time,
'Twixt after dinner and before,
To dowagers brought back their prime,
And shed a halo round two-score.
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