It will be light this evening, the days grow long, The stir of the full day scatters and dies; Yet seeing no nightfall, the trees in surprise Remain awake in the white dusk's musing song. The chestnut trees, on the heavy, golden air Shed their rich perfume where the wind may fly it; You dare not break upon the evening quiet For fear of waking all the odors there. The far-off city murmurs twilight odes ... The dust, that a passing breath of wind has raised, Drops from the stirring, tired tree it grazed And gently falls upon the tranquil roads. And every day there stretches on our sight This simple road we have so often ranged, Yet something in our life has somehow changed: We shall not have our spirit of this night. |