'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain, <br />That floats through the evening sky: <br />With his note of love, he replies again, <br />To the muezzin's holy cry; <br />As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air, <br />'Allah il allah! come to prayer!' <br />Warm o'er the waters the red sun is glowing, <br />'Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and might, <br />While each rippling wave on the bright shore is throwing <br />Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light. <br />Each distant mosque and minaret <br />Is shining in the setting sun, <br />Whose farewell look is brighter yet, <br />Than that with which its course begun. <br />On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright, <br />It glows on the orange grove's waving height, <br />And breaks through its shade in long lines of light. <br />No sound on the earth, and no sound in the sky, <br />Save murmuring fountains that sparkle nigh, <br />And the rustling flight of the evening breeze, <br />Who steals from his nest in the orange trees, <br />And a thousand dewy odours flings, <br />As he shakes their white buds from his gossamer wings, <br />And flutters away through the spicy air, <br />At sound of a footstep drawing near.<br /><br />Frances Anne Kemble<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/eastern-sunset/
