THE TWILIGHT STORY

The woods are dyed with purple,
The west is washed with gold,
And in the waiting twilight
There is a story told.

The crooning river sings it,

The tree-top robins call,
The bloodshot stirs to hear it
Beside the pasture wall.

It rings along the meadows
With piping clear and wild,

The burden of the moment
By loveliness beguiled.

’Tis sadder than the south wind
Or the deep sobbing rain,
With memories of by-gones

That will not be again.

It runs through all the music
From haunted woodlands blown,
When April comes with gladness
To make the world her own.

It has the spell of magic
That brings the mountains near,—
The note of breathless wonder
The hearts of seashells hear;

The story of the twilight