There is an hour when first the westering sun
Takes on some forecast faint of future red;
When from the wings of weariness is shed
A spell upon us toilers, every one;
The day's work lags a little, well-nigh done;
Far dusky lofts through all the close air spread
A smell of eastern bales; the old clerk's head
Nods by my side, heavy with dreams begun
In dear dead days wherein his heart is tombed.
But I my way to Italy have found;
Or wander where high stars gleam coldly through
The Alpine skies; or in some nest perfumed,
With soft Parisian luxury set round,
Held out my arms and cry "At last!" to you.