The sheep-bell tolleth curfew-time;
The gnats, a busy rout
Fleck the warm air; the dismal owl
Shouteth a sleepy shout;
The voiceless bat, more felt than seen
Is flitting round about

The aspen leaflets scarcely stir:
The river seems to think:
Athwart the dusk, broad primroses
Look coldly from the brink
Where, list'ning to the freshet's noise
The quiet cattle drink

The bees boom past, the white moths rise
Like spirits from the ground;
The gray flies hum thеir weary tune
A distant-dream-likе sound;
And far, far off to the slumb'rous eve
Bayeth an old guard-hound