The poem
It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard; It is the hour -- when lover's vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word; And gentle winds and waters near, Make music to the lonely ear. Each flower the dews have lightly wet, And in the sky the stars are met, And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue, And in the Heaven that clear obscure So softly dark, and darkly pure, That follows the decline of day As twilight melts beneath the moon away.