The magic moment of the eve has come,
When keen behind the hill the afterglow
Makes gold and flame of heaven, too soon to change
To mother-of-pearl; and hark! the hid thrush sings
His master-song, wee Walter of the wood,
So silvery and sweet that one is sure
He'll win his Eva, put to shame for aye
All rivals, prove himself a knight indeed
At minstrelsy, and live by music's might
So long as men have ears and Time a tongue.