13. Nocturne

Here, where the bees are droning

Athwart the fuchsia bush,

All, all, save their intoning

Is wrapped in evening hush;

The drowsy river glimmers,

The twilight paling shimmers

After the sunset blush.

 

The bees are homeward wheeling

Their last and laden flight;

Good children now are kneeling

Ere mother dims their light;

Bright stars fall out of Heaven,

The fields to God are given

By His dark nursemaid Night.

 

Weekly Times  1.9.61