The Coming of Night.

HOW the old mountains drip with sunset,And the brake of dun!How the hemlocks are tipped in tinselBy the wizard sun!

How the old steeples hand the scarlet,Till the ball is full,—Have I the lip of the flamingoThat I dare to tell?

Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,Touching all the grassWith a departing, sapphire feature,As if a duchess pass!

How a small dusk crawls on the villageTill the houses blot;And the odd flambeaux no men carryGlimmer on the spot!

Now it is night in nest and kennel,And where was the wood,Just a dome of abyss is noddingInto solitude!—

These are the visions baffled Guido;Titian never told;Domenichino dropped the pencil,Powerless to unfold.