Джордж Гордон Байрон

It is the hour when from the boughs

The nightingale’s high note is heard.

It is the hour when lovers’ vows

Seem sweet in every whisper’d word.

And gentle winds and waters near

Make music to the lonely ear.

Each flower the dews have lightly wet,

And in the sky the stars are met:

And on the wave is deeper blue,

And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the Heaven, that clear obscure

So softly dark and darkly pure,

That follows the decline of day

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.