The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone:

  The pleasant voice, the lovely balmy lips,

  The tanning heat, the shady coolness blown,

  The revel of the pond, the garden's beauty tints.

  

  The chivied flowers concealed themselves in buds,

  One couldn't hear the birds or see the clouds.

  The church bell stopped to plague the neighb'ring huts.

  The charm of dream covered the beds with shrouds.

  

  To those, who don't sleep, the night can weave

  The thinnest curtains of the thickest dark,

  The joy of hot embraces it will give,

  And, having tired, let sleep a bit till mark

  

  Of bashful sunshine illuminates the East,

  So that the sweets of day couldn't be missed.