Archibald Lampman

The Bird and the Hour

    The sun looks over a little hill
      And floods the valley with gold--
            A torrent of gold;
    And the hither field is green and still;
      Beyond it a cloud outrolled,
      Is glowing molten and bright;
    And soon the hill, and the valley and all,
            With a quiet fall,
      Shall be gathered into the night.
      And yet a moment more,
            Out of the silent wood,
      As if from the closing door
    Of another world and another lovelier mood,
      Hear'st thou the hermit pour--
            So sweet! so magical!--
    His golden music, ghostly beautiful.