AT six of the. clock when evening comes

Up the dale, down the dale echo the drums ;

Flutings are heard from the depths of the vale,

Bugle note's silver and fairie fife wail.

And a flicker of elves with sandals of gold

Are threading with laughter the shadowing world

Till scarves are awhirl—on their filmy gauze,

Mothlike, a moon-trance stillness pours.