H. C. Bunner - From a Counting-House lyrics

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.