Far off the Rio Grande crawls,
A silver serpent in the sand;
And sweetly, softly, slowly falls
The shade of twilight on the land.
The mocking-bird, that all the day
Has piped, entangling note with note,
In merry song, and roundelay,
Has quelled the lyrics in his throat.
In meditation, buried all,
Three philosophic burros wait,
Beside a dun, adobe wall,
The opening of the master's gate.
A corsair hawk is sailing low,
And lazily, his flight unreeled
In widening spirals,—wavering so
Across the green alfalfa field.
A purple mantle rolls, and spreads,—
From distant foothills deepening down—
Across the dry arroya beds,
And over all the drowsy town.
So softly shadow blends with shade,
So stealthily the darkness wins,
We scarcely see the daylight fade,—
We scarcely know the night begins.
The sky, rose-tinted in the west,
Is blue and cloudless everywhere;
One white star tips a mountain crest,
And sparkles like a jewel there.
