When a tired day bowed down to the night
The waves fell still, the birds wouldn't fly,
The sun set down over the hills (what a sight!)
And musingly the moon floated in the sky.
In the vale, the peaceful silvery brook
Babbled sweet nothings to the hushed dale,
While dark forest, dreamily bowed and took
In the trills of the nightingale's long tale,
Attentive to the songs and the quiet bustle,
The river whispered, caressing the banks.
On the hill above, the reeds gently rustled
Happily singing, (or giving their thanks).