A Valediction: Caniscæli Robert Emmet (Bob)
November eve, when still soft twilight manifests
insensibly — but oh! so swift. Swift as that swallow
which skims alone on high: so high, so small,
it seems neighbor to the moon which hangs,
pure and silent, impassive witness to the scene.
In the marsh cat-tails (now bloom’d) and grasses’ whisks
stand: glowing spectres, creatures of the falling dark.
Time to turn back; now the time to call my dog
whose vesper bell, alone, ﬁlls the silence of this hour:
Come ’round! — we’re done.