Fatiscebat HWIM 06 034

2026-03-15T00:00:00Z

Fatiscebat Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing; Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid compos'd, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail Thy genial lov'd return! Collins, William. "Ode to Evening." 1747. Poetical Works . Pickering, 1827. https://archive.org/details/poeticalworksw00colluoft