XXII 
  
THE TWILIGHT OF EVEN 
  
  
THE day falls; a great relief comes over the 
poor minds that are wearied with the day’s toil, 
and their thoughts now take on the tender and 
uncertain colours of the twilight. 
Nevertheless, from the level of the moun-
tain to my balcony across the transparent 
clouds of even there comes a great howl, com-
posed of many discordant cries, which space 
transforms into a mournful harmony like that 
of a rising tide or of a tempest which awakes. 
Who are these unfortunate ones to whom 
evening brings no calm, and who, like the 
owls, take the coming of the night for the sig-
nal of their sabbath? This sinister ululation 
comes to us from the black asylum perched 
upon the mountain side, as I invoke the eve-
ning, smoking and contemplating the repose of 
the great valley dotted with houses whose 
every window says “Here now is peace; here is 
domestic joy.” When the wind blows from 
above, there can I cradle my thought, that 
wonders at this imitation of Hell’s harmony.