The brilliant west is glowing,
  With sunset's farewell ray;
  The silver waves are flowing,
  On to the distant sea;
 
  The pale bright stars are keeping
  Their watch through night's still hours;
  The dews in joy are weeping
  Above the new-born flowers;
 
  The city's hum is dying
  Upon the perfumed breeze,
  That wanders, softly sighing,
  Among the flower-crowned trees.
 
  But my vagrant thoughts are roaming
  To loved ones far away;
  I heed not twilight's coming,
  Nor flowers, nor winds at play.
 
  Of a low, sweet voice I'm dreaming,
  More soft than the southwinds are,
  Of a gentle eye that is beaming,
  More bright than the Evening Star;
 
  And I read as many pages
  In the depths of that hazel eye,
  As were read by the Chaldean sages,
  In the glittering stars on high;
 
  And the dreams that float under the cover
  Of those snowy lids of thine,
  The thoughts in that young heart that hover,
  I have magic power to divine.